#as more and more pieces of me collapse in upon themselves

[freepassbound]

The centre cannot hold.

[chelseeebe]

still into you

after abruptly leaving hawkins (and you) seven years ago, eddie munson, ex-boyfriend turned rockstar, makes a grand return. how will things pan out when your lives couldn’t be further apart?

this has been in the drafts for god knows how long and you can definitely tell where my writing started to improve as i came back to it.. hope y’all enjoy anyway! this is so long good lord. also includes a bit of bestfriendism with stevie!

18+. mdni. smut. mentions of alcohol. eddie is a dickhead. no use of y/n!

read part two here.

‎♡‧₊˚

‘you know he’s coming back next weekend?’ steve mutters, nodding towards you as you rip the sellotape from the brown box, beginning to stack the cans of soup.

‘is he? oh my god oh my god,’ feigning excitement with a straight face.

you’d already known he was coming back, you’d received the invitation just like everybody else. except, you’d swiftly put the gimmicky piece of paper into the trash and got on with your day. confused why everyone else seemed to be losing their goddamn minds over it.

he huffs quietly, helping you with the heavy tins, ‘are you gonna go?’ steve didn’t actually work in melvalds but came in on his breaks purely to chat and distract you from your work.

‘am i gonna go? hmm, let me think.. no.’

‘he wants to see you.. you should come,’ prodding his elbow into your side, collapsing the box into a flat piece of cardboard.

‘you spoke to him?’ ears perking up. you didn’t care if he’d mentioned you. no, really.

‘yeah.. he called a few weeks ago, y’know when the invitations got sent out,’ picking up the next box to start filling the shelf.

‘oh! it’s nice to know he called you and just hilarious to know i never got a phone call,’ getting frankly quite sick of hearing about eddie fucking munson and his grand return.

once upon a time, eddie had actually been your boyfriend. must’ve been 7 or so years ago by this point.. anyway, that was before he’d got his big break and decided that he was going to completely forget about hawkins.. and about you. you’d still been together after his first tiny tour, excitedly waiting for him to come home when he just.. never did.

he’d had the decency to at least call and tell you that he was breaking up with you.. we’re just in different places right now.. it’s not you.. i don’t want you to ruin your life waiting for me..

it was essentially a whole bunch of bullshit, because the very next month he was spotted with some bottle blonde model looking suspiciously close at some club he’d have absolutely hated the year prior. it was like a punch to the gut, flicking through the pages of the trashy magazine just knowing that you hadn’t been enough for this new lifestyle of his.

from then on, you’d decided to disengage with any and everything about him. turning the tv off when corroded coffin came on one of the morning talk shows, leaving the room at parties when one of his song’s inevitably came on and just completely blanking out of the conversation when his name was brought up. it was easier that way, saved your feelings and the awkward glances you’d get.

at some point things had become slightly more complicated and you’re not sure how exactly it had happened but you had wound up pregnant. and by jason carver no less. maybe it was your shared disdain for eddie that had brought you together. who knows?

but it had happened and now you had to deal with it. and although jason may come in a close second to world’s biggest assholes.. you had gained a beautiful daughter from it all and had become quite content with your single mom life.

people had come and gone, robin jetting off to some fancy college in california.. jonathan and nancy ending up in new york at some hot-shot newspaper.. the kids you’d sort of gathered had all gone off to various colleges, becoming adults themselves. all except for steve.

steve had stayed in hawkins like you, begrudgingly following his father’s footsteps, getting a job at his accounting firm. it was good money and kept his dad happy so he couldn’t fault it really. he’d even got his own place just down the street from your house and at some point you’d just accepted that he was probably your only friend in hawkins.

it had brought the two of you undeniably closer and maybe you’d even call him your best friend now. well, except for right now as he was beginning to piss you off with all this fussing over eddie.

‘you have to come.. it’s not just for him, everyone is going.. it’s a reunion,’ steve continues to pester you despite your efforts to shut him down.

‘steve, i’m not going and that’s that.’

he sighs, staring at you with a blank expression, ‘okay, well.. i’ll tell him it’s a maybe,’ checking his watch before frowning, ‘shit, i’m late.. i’ll see you later,’ throwing the empty cardboard to the floor before dashing off down the aisle, giving you an exaggerated wave as he disappears.

you just knew that he was not going to drop this until you agreed to go. but he could kick and scream as much as he liked, you had absolutely zero desire to go this flimsy reunion and even less desire to see eddie in the flesh.

-

it’s another dull week of stacking shelves and managing a team of absolute morons and before you know it, it’s the day before that fucking reunion and steve is still as incessant as ever that you must go.

‘my mom can look after ella.. please just come,’ he sounded like he was a second away from getting on his knees to actually beg you to go.

you’d started to just ignore him now, getting on with whatever you were doing, choosing to give him the silent treatment. he hated that.

‘you’re so annoying,’ he scoffs, still helping you unbox the bags of chips, ‘will you just come for five minutes.. you don’t even have to talk to eddie, it’s the first time we’ll all be together again.. puh-leaseee,’ breaking into a weird sort of sing-song tone.

you exhale through your nose, visibly frustrated by the man, ‘i’m going to ban you in a minute,’ raising your eyebrows, taking the same tone you used when ella was being a brat.

‘no you won’t,’ furrowing his brows, ‘what if i promise to stand in between you the whole night? i’ll beat him with a stick if he even tries to talk to you,’ completely serious with what he just said.

you chortle, covering your mouth as one of the elderly customers walks past, slightly bewildered by the noise that just escaped your mouth, ‘couldn’t you just beat him with a stick anyway?’

‘ehh.. not really, he is paying for the whole thing,’ straightening the bags of air he’d just placed on the shelf, ‘i mean, i could if you really want me to.’

you roll your eyes, of course he was. he’d rented the fanciest restaurant just outside of town for your gaggle of pals. any chance to flaunt the fact that he’d made it out of this hell hole and left the rest of you in the dirt.

‘i have a child, steve, i can’t just go out and leave her at home.. some of us aren’t free like you are,’ turning to face him with a stern hand on your hip.

‘i just told you my mom’ll look after her.. she hasn’t seen her in so long and.. and you can stay at mine and i’ll take you to her first thing in the morning,’ his eyes are round, glimmering in the harsh overhead lights.

‘i don’t have anything to wear,’ shrugging, you really didn’t. becoming a mother isn’t quite so glamorous and a lot of clothes you’d once fit into had become a little tight.

‘when d’you finish?’

narrowing your eyes at him, ‘two..’

‘great.. okay well, i’ll take a half-day and we can go shopping.. on me,’ wiggling his eyebrows at you. the thing about steve is that he believes that most problems can be solved by throwing money at it.

he wasn’t wrong, of course.

because you reluctantly agree to go shopping with him on the condition that you weren’t definitely going to this thing. you were just going to try on dresses. that was it.

-

you get a cab to the restaurant, there was no way in hell you were doing this sober nor did you want to subject steve to being sober for your sake. palms clammy as you clamber out of the vehicle, immediately regretting your decision.

no one would care if you didn’t go, right? you could quite easily just get back into the taxi and go home without forcing yourself to endure the night.

steve’s one step ahead of you, grabbing your hand so you can’t run away. throwing him an awful glare but you weren’t really mad, just annoyed that he’d succeeded in persuading you to come.

‘c’mon.. it won’t be so bad once you’re in there,’ smoothing down his fresh shirt as he begins to walk up the winding path, dragging you along behind him.

he’s wrong. it’s so much worse inside. the place was huge, extravagantly decorated and full of people you’d once regarded as your best friends, all too busy in their own conversations to notice you and steve walk in.

it wasn’t like you hadn’t heard from them, it had just been through occasional letters and christmas cards rather than seeing them face to face. robin would call sometimes, fill you in on whatever she had been up to and beg to speak to ella who absolutely loved it. you were sure they were on the same wavelength.

you look to steve with wary eyes, digging your fingertips into his hand, ‘we could just leave right now.. no one would even know,’ tugging gently on his arm.

‘hey,’ he whispers, ‘it’s okay.. look, robin’s coming over, we’ll say hi and see how you feel,’ using his spare hand to wave at the bubbly girl, dropping your hand to give her a hug.

‘oh my god,’ she rushes, ‘how are you? you look so good.. and i don’t mean you,’ pulling away from steve to throw her arms around you, her gentle hands rubbing on your back.

‘hah, it’s nice to see you too,’ steve rolls his eyes, grabbing two of the champagne flutes being ferried around by fancy waiters.

she pulls back, ‘i didn’t think you were coming.. how are you doing? how’s ella?’ the words falling out of her mouth at super speed, it was as if her mouth moved before her brain did.

‘i wasn’t gonna but i wanted to see you guys,’ you nod, taking the glass from steve’s outstretched hand and taking a lengthy sip, ‘i’m okay.. ella’s okay.. you’ll have to come and see her before you leave.’

‘i will i will! i literally landed like two hours ago and had to rush but i’m back until friday,’ her hands flying around as she spoke, ‘come and say hello..’ her arm intertwines with yours as she leans in closer to your ear, ‘he’s staring y’know..’

your eyes roll back on their own, not even wanting to search the room for him, ‘i’m not speaking to him so he can stare all he likes,’ straightening up as you approach the group robin had left.

nancy’s talking to max about something in incredible detail but is quite to stop when you approach, mouth in a small ‘o’ as she hugs you, ‘you came? i thought we were gonna miss you,’ grinning wide when she pulls back.

you give an overdramatic sigh, ‘of course i had to come.. you’d all miss me too much,’ waving to the rest of the group.

there are a lot of small pleasantries swapped, asking about their journey’s here and how they’d been.. standard small talk. but then el asks to see a picture of ella, ecstatic that their names were so similar. you’d come prepared, pulling the creased picture out of your bag.

they all gush and coo over her, it was a picture you’d snapped from her first day of kindergarten, cheesing with her pigtails and pink hair bobbles. passing it around the gathered group, still steadily sipping on the bitter champagne.

‘who’s that?’ eddie asks, you hadn’t noticed him sidle over to the crowd, stood peering over lucas’ shoulder at the photograph.

your eyes meet his, seeing his face for the first time in what felt like centuries. he looked older, obviously, still sporting the same long curls except now it actually looked as if it’d been styled. he’s in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, forearms now littered with tattoos and a nice looking watch. your heart just about stops beating when you realise you’ll now have to explain exactly who that is.

‘uh.. that’s ella,’ you nod, not quite meeting his eyes, ‘..my daughter,’ taking the photo from lucas’ hand, the atmosphere had quite suddenly shifted and people begin to scatter, starting their own conversations so they don’t have to bare witness to this one.

‘oh.. oh, right.. well, congratulations then,’ the shadow of a smile on his lips, could he feel how fucking awkward this was?

‘thank you,’ giving him a half nod, startled as steve’s hand brushes the small of your back. he’d seen that you were in conversation and had left dustin to fulfil his security guard promise.

‘it’s nice that you two found each other.. you have a beautiful daughter,’ still not fully committed to smiling but he was getting there.

your face contorts, immediately looking to steve before letting out a god awful cackle, ‘oh no.. she’s not steve’s,’ covering your mouth before another taunting laugh comes out.

steve is trying to stifle his grin but fails, reaching his hand out to shake eddie’s hand, ‘ah man, no ella’s not mine but she is beautiful, isn’t she? how are you?’

you’re eternally grateful that he he’s managed to sway the conversation and you aren’t forced to explain why or how you’d had a child with jason fucking carver. turning back to robin as you hear steve ramble on about work and corroded coffin’s new album, something you had absolutely no care about.

‘shall we get another drink?’ robin asks, eyeing the open bar and your empty glass.

‘please.’

the rest of the night is going.. relatively well. it’s kinda unsettling to watch the younger kids drink legally, getting more boisterous and loud as the night progresses. it’s nice, if not a little sad just thinking about how you weren’t really able to enjoy yourself at their age because you had a newborn.

you must’ve been deep in thought as you don’t even notice eddie creep up to the empty table, standing awkwardly besides your chair, ‘can we talk?’

your eyes shoot up to meet his, baffled by his presence, ‘what could we possibly have to talk about?’

he exhales through his nose, ‘uh.. a lot? we don’t have to do it here.. i have a room upstairs or.. outside?’

‘no,’ gripping onto your glass of wine, desperately trying to grab the attention of someone behind eddie to come and save you, ‘i don’t want to speak to you.’

he’s exasperated, clutching onto his beer with strained white knuckles. how were you ever supposed to move past this when you wouldn’t even give him the opportunity to explain himself. but that was exactly it. you didn’t care about any of the silly excuses you’re sure he’d conjured up, he did what he did and that was that.

‘i’m trying here..’ sounding exasperated, ‘how ‘bout dinner? sometime this week, on me,’ his voice is deeper now, raspier. you figure as a result of constant partying and chain smoking while on tour.

‘i have a child and a job.. i don’t have time for dinner with you on top of that,’ swallowing the rest of the sweet white wine, putting the empty glass back on the table with a forceful slam.

you make brief eye contact with will who was passing behind eddie and decide to take the opportunity to pounce, standing from your chair and rushing over the second he nears your table.

‘will.. hey,’ speeding to catch him up, mouthing a small save me, clinging to his arm as you move away from eddie who was stood deflated at the table.

will thankfully catches your drift, steering you towards the bar, ‘you okay? i was just about to leave..’ placing his empty glass onto the bar with a soft sigh.

‘what? no.. if i can’t go then you’re not allowed either,’ talking sternly to the boy even though he now towered above you and just about everybody else in here.

he screws up his face, looking over to the dance floor, ‘it’s just..’ sighing once again, ‘awful, isn’t it?’ following his gaze to an intoxicated mike performing an elaborate air guitar routine in the middle of the floor.

it wasn’t exactly the same, but you could empathise with the difficult situation and that foul feeling in your stomach that you were sure he could feel too. you could imagine that it wasn’t easy to see the man you’d once, or perhaps still loved after so long. in fact, you didn’t really need to imagine at all.

deciding it was better to change the subject, distract him from the unraveling scene on the dance floor, ‘d’you smoke?’

he looks around quickly, watching out for a listening jonathan, you assume before he nods quickly, ‘but no one can know,’ a hint of a smile creeping onto his face.

you return the devilish grin before hooking your arm in his, pulling him towards the door where you could get the hell away from annoying men and their long black hair.

-

it’s gone three by the time you get back to steve’s, genuinely having to coax him from the party and into the cab you’d shared with a belligerent dustin, making sure he had got home safely.

‘i wasn’t too mean, was i?’ snuggled up in steve’s blankets, facing each other in the low light of his room.

‘nooo, no you were on fire,’ he laughs, he was still tipsy and slightly reeking of booze as he lay next to you.

‘really? you’re sure?’ he was definitely just drunk and blabbing on but you’d take it.

‘yes.. it was perfect,’ he hiccups, interrupting his sentence, ‘buuut.. and i’m not the only one who said this so don’t kill me..’ kissing the back of his teeth, ‘you’re not gonna like what i have to say.’

‘what? what is it?’ prodding his shoulder with a quick jab. knowing eddie, he’d probably gone round the party whispering some bullshit about the two of you.

‘well..’ holding his hands in the air, ‘there’s still chemistry there.. y’know i could see it,’ raising his eyebrows, hands collapsing onto the blanket.

‘right, i’m going to sleep.. you’re drunk and just saying stupid shit now,’ rolling your eyes as you settle into the soft pillow, closing your eyes so you no longer had to entertain his idiotic nonsense.

he chortles, hiccuping mid-laugh which makes a horrid choking noise, ‘i’m not that drunk.. robin said it too,’ the lamp clicks off, darkening the room, ‘and dustin..’

‘go to sleep steve,’ unamused and tired.

‘okay okay.. goodnight,’ he calls, you can hear the smile in his voice as he turns to face the other way, taking that as your opportunity to rest your head on his back, nuzzling into the soft cotton t-shirt.

-

monday is particularly awful and you’re reminded exactly why you don’t drink often. two days on and you’re still exhausted, half-heartedly filling the shelves and just trying to make it to two o’clock.

in your tired state, one of the bottles of shampoo you were putting out, falls out of your hand and rolls off somewhere down the aisle. you sigh, a deep, fed-up, exhaustive sigh and get up to go and fetch it when the bottle appears before your face, a tattooed, ring-filled hand latched onto it.

‘carver? really?’ eddie frowns, watching you from above, eyebrows furrowed together.

you place the bottle onto it’s rightful spot on the shelf and choose to ignore him. if he’d come all the way down here just to piss you off about your poor life choices then he could get fucked.

‘when’d that happen?’

blanking him again as you continue to put stuff onto the shelves. this was the easiest way to guarantee that you weren’t going to get yourself fired for being rude to him.

‘you gonna ignore me? i just wanna know,’ still poking and prodding, he clearly wasn’t very good at picking up on context clues.

nothing.

‘fuck, can you just talk to me for five minutes?’ your silence was driving him crazy, aggravating him to no end.

‘i’m at work, so no,’ hurriedly trying to finish the stock you had so you had an excuse to rush out the back and away from him.

he was fortunate that it was a quiet monday, the store full of mostly older ladies who had no idea who he was. you sorta hoped that he’d get mobbed and would have to hurry off and leave you alone.

‘why jason? out of literally everyone else in this shithole you choose jason?’ screwing his face up in disgust.

you slam the box cutter down with a loud clatter, causing a few turned heads and raised eyebrows. fuck ‘em. if you had done what you’d really wanted to do, you’d be locked up forever.

‘i don’t know if you remember this but my boyfriend of like, two years ran away and never came home so yeah.. that kinda fucked with me a little and lucky for me, jason carver was there and also hated my ex’s guts.. so it was perfect, you know?’ staring flatly at him, you were not dealing with his shit today.

eddie scoffs, ‘so you had a kid with him? and now.. what? you play happy families just to spite me? is that it?’

‘yes eddie, i had a whole child just to piss you off.’

he gawps back at you, clearly also did not possess the ability to sense sarcasm.

‘no,’ scowling at him, ‘it was an accident and now he’s.. i dunno, coaching basketball at some school in ohio or some shit.. why don’t you go and bother him?’

‘so you’re not together?’

you can only roll your eyes in response, in sheer disbelief that he’d made such a fuss because he couldn’t just outright ask if you were single.

un-fucking-believable.

you’ve had just about enough of this conversation, pulling your little trolley back towards the swing doors that lead to the warehouse. at least he wasn’t allowed in there.

‘wait! wait..’ he grabs onto the other side of the trolley, stopping you from walking off, ‘have dinner with me tonight or.. tomorrow?’ eyes big and pleading.

‘now why would i do that?’

‘because i want to explain myself.. i need to.’

one of the younger shoppers notices who he is and begins trying to talk to him, coming over to where you two stood rather excitedly. eddie is kind enough to smile and give her a few polite words, eyes still latched onto yours despite the ecstatic woman beside him.

‘okay,’ honestly just wanting to get away from all this commotion, ‘tomorrow.’

his scowl subsides, replaced by a gleaming grin, ‘six o’clock.. pino’s, i’ll sort it, okay?’ already starting to walk away from the crazy woman.

‘right,’ you nod, pulling your trolley away and into the back warehouse, leaning against the concrete wall. the whole exchange was tiring, knocking whatever tiny bit of energy out of you.

were you actually gonna go?

absolutely fucking not.

-

by the time six rolls around the next night, you really had forgotten all about it. rushing to get ella her dinner after swimming lessons, already worrying about paying for yet another field trip she’d sprung on you earlier. you’d begun to wonder if they even taught in the classrooms anymore with the amount of permission slips she brought home.

she’s finally settled into bed, after much protesting and a lot of coaxing. you’re just about to finally relax on the couch when someone hammers on your front door. and if you weren’t already pissed off with ella’s whining, you were most definitely about to be with whichever mindless prick was banging on your door.

‘what do you want?’ you hiss, jerking the door open to reveal a pathetic looking eddie on the other side, face forlorn and dejected.

he’s in that white shirt again. it makes you sick to your stomach to admit that it really does look good on him. his arms now more defined, the cotton sticking to his muscles, briefly showcasing the new tattoos underneath. maybe he’d actually got off of his ass and did something other than smoke weed all day.

‘oh so you are alive, d’you forget about something?’ he’s snarling now, having conjured up some elaborate excuse in his head as to why you hadn’t showed, only to find you at home, seemingly with no care in the world.

‘oops,’ the corners of your mouth twitching into a smile, you hadn’t even actually meant to stand him up, you were just gonna call his hotel and cancel but the thought had just completely slipped your mind.

and even if it shouldn’t, it really did feel good. knowing he was the one sat waiting for you for once.

‘oops? i sat there for an hour waiting for you and then spent the last hour trying to convince dustin to give me your fucking address.. and all you can say is oops?’

you shrug, ‘feels pretty shitty to be forgotten about, doesn’t it?’ tilting your head, watching as his face falls. he’d been got.

‘okay.. okay, i get it, and i’m sorry.. there’s not a day that goes by that i don’t feel like shit for how i treated you,’ his head dips low, looking particularly sorry for himself.

and for a second you do too. not that he deserved it. quickly having to remind yourself exactly what he had done to you, which was not at all helped by the fact that he now had everything he’d ever wanted in life.

and you couldn’t fault your life. truly. but fuck did it sting sometimes, to know that your life had stagnated, stuck in the same shitty town you’d grown up in while he was on the other side of the country, more money than sense and a hoard of doting fans that would do absolutely anything he’d ask of them.

‘good,’ you bark, going to slam the door shut only for it to bang against his black boot wedged in the door, ‘if you don’t move your foot i’ll- i’ll call the police.’

‘no you won’t,’ his hand reaches out to grab onto the other side of the handle, he could’ve easily pushed his way in if he’d really wanted, ‘let’s talk.. like adults,’ begging you now, ‘please.’

you huff, this would end with you either letting him in or being forced to wake ella after you bashed his head into the doorframe. it was easier to just accept the first option and you’d find some bullshit to get him to leave later on.

opening the door wider to let him in, keeping your eyes square on the ground as he walks through, peering around at your home. probably comparing it to his mansion in the hollywood hills the pretentious fuck.

‘nice..’ he nods, leaning in to look at the photo of you and ella a few christmas’ ago, she was tiny then, sporting a miniature santa hat.

‘yeah well, she’s asleep upstairs so.. make it quick,’ you frown, closing the door behind him, watching as his eyes take in the cluttered room, smile fading when he catches sight of the singular picture you have up of jason and ella.

‘i can’t believe you chose to fuck jason of all people.. i mean, i’ve made some shitty decisions in my life but..’ he stops himself from going any further when he sees your face, if looks could kill, he’d be long gone by now.

‘did you come here for a reason? or are you here to talk about my life decisions.. because i really don’t want to hear it from you,’ crossing your arms over your chest, wanting him out of your house.

‘no.. no, shit- i’m sorry,’ he shuffles on his feet, banging his head, ‘i wanna talk.. properly.’

you roll your hand to motion for him to continue, ‘go on..’

he inhales, chewing on the inside of his cheek, trying to psyche himself up to actually say what he wanted to say. it wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say, he just couldn’t string it together to make sense.

‘i’m sorry for the way i treated you.. it wasn’t right and i know that now,’ his hand coming to rub the back of his clammy next, why was your house so fucking hot?

‘okay.. apology accepted, was that everything?’ you say flatly, glancing up the stairs to make sure ella wasn’t awake and out of her room.

his face falls, ‘can you just.. just let me explain,’ his adam apple bobbing as he swallows, ‘why don’t you sit down..’ motioning towards your ratty couch.

you relent your stern stature, hesitantly going to sit on the couch, trying to ensure that he couldn’t possibly sit next to you by sprawling your legs out onto the empty cushion. so he takes the seat furthest away, running his hands down his tight jeans. designer, no less.. the only person you knew stupid enough to spend thousands on designer jeans just to tear holes in them.

‘when i ended things with you, i wasn’t.. well, it was me, but i had my manager screaming in my ear that it’d never work and he could hook me up with some fuckin’ model.. it’d help the band.. so that’s what i did,’ and for once, he looked genuinely remorseful, fiddling with the loose threads on his expensive jeans.

‘so you sold out? that’s your excuse?’

his head shoots up, mouth hung open with absolute disgust all over his face, ‘i am not a sell out.’

which is incredibly refutable, you’d heard a snippet of one of their recent songs on the radio at work and it had sounded exactly like the commercial shit he used to rag on when you were together. not a touch on the corroded coffin you sat and watched practice for hours on end.

‘oh? so you didn’t break up with me to further your career? you just wanted to fuck hot models? which one is it ‘cause i’m a little confused here,’ completely losing it, springing up from your slouched position.

‘okay, yeah.. yeah i did, i broke up with you because i wanted to fuckin’ make something of my life.. and look at where i am and look at-,’

‘-don’t you dare finish that sentence,’ you snap, gritting your teeth together as you near his face, positively shaking with rage.

‘what’re you gonna do? you gonna hit me? do it,’ his chin tilted to match your elevated position, eyes glued to yours.

‘i should.’

his lips twitch into a smirk, ‘you won’t.’

and before your brain has the time to really process your next movements, he balls his fist into your t-shirt, causing your chest to collide into his as his lips smash into yours, knocking the air out of your lungs.

scrambling to find his shoulders for balance, sliding one hand onto his stubbly cheek. it’s all teeth and tongues, he’s ravenous and unrelenting, letting go of his grip on your shirt to place his hands on your hips, ‘move,’ mumbling against your lips as he attempts to manoeuvre you onto his lap while twisting around.

he slides down the couch, keeping a solid hold of your body as you find the right position. your legs are either side of his waist, sliding into the gap between his body and the couch sitting right on his crotch. wasting absolutely zero time in connecting your lips against, honestly not wanting to run the risk of him opening his mouth and ruining this.

his large hands find solace on your ass, creeping up to remove the oversized shirt you’d thrown on. you place your hand above his, restricting him from moving any further. it’s not that you were embarrassed- okay, maybe you were a little. but your body had changed since becoming a mom and eddie had become accustomed to gorgeous models and perfect women that he’d certainly not want to see your boring, frumpy mom body.

he groans in protest, trying again to lift the shirt further only for your fingernails to dig into his hand, ‘no,’ speaking into the filthy kiss.

eddie pulls away from the kiss, fingers coming to gently brush the hair from your face, ‘you can’t be serious? i’ve seen it all before,’ he grumbles, fingers itching to try lift it again.

‘not like this you haven’t.. i just.. want it on, okay?’

‘no- why won’t you let me take this off?’ fingers curling around the hem, already trying his luck with getting it up again.

you sigh, meeting his blown out eyes with your glossy ones, ‘i don’t even know what i’m doing.. fuck,’ attempting to climb off of his lap while the spare hand he has on your ass clamps you down, keeping you pressed to him.

‘hey.. hey, keep it on.. i don’t care,’ already trying to chase your lips, ‘i’m just saying, you don’t need to,’ the denim covering his growing erection starting to rub against your throbbing clit, the sparse material of your pajama shorts were not leaving much to the imagination.

‘jesus christ, just take it off,’ giving up in your protest, it was useless against eddie’s persistence.

you press your lips to his the second your shirt is off, there was no time to judge your body if he couldn’t see it. pulling at his jacket to get it off, the metal buttons digging into your now bare skin.

‘i didn’t.. i didn’t mean.. what i said..’ babbling through the kiss as he shimmies out of the jacket, landing on the floor with a soft thud.

‘shut up,’ you whine, running your hand along the length of his chest until you reach the hem of his black shirt, gripping your fingers around the fabric and lifting it slightly, exposing his midriff, the soft trail of hair ascending the skin.

his head jerks backwards, allowing you to tug the shirt off, finally allowing his eyes to wander to your chest. ‘holy shit,’ he remarks like he’d never seen a pair of tits before. it’s futile for him to pretend that he hadn’t seen some amazing boobs in his time so you scoff, rolling your eyes.

working your hand at his belt buckle, fiddling with the metal until it pops undone. he’s hard already and it makes you groan, brushing your hand over the raised denim. this week seriously must’ve been difficult if he was getting hard so easily over you.

it doesn’t ever occur to you how much of a mistake this was. and even if it did, you didn’t have much time to ponder on it as his hands are grabbing at your breasts, palming them as his lips suck at your jaw and down onto your neck softly. guaranteed to leave a lovely violet mark that the old ladies at work would certainly gasp at.

he’s helping you with his jeans, one hand gripping onto your waist to keep you steady as he lifts his hips from the couch and the other hurriedly yanking them down just enough to reveal his boxers. that’s the next port of call, fingers grabbing at the thin black cotton, pulling them down his thighs as his cock springs into action.

eddie’s lips are still on your neck while you mindlessly wrap your hand around his cock, pumping your fist as you shuffle upwards. his breath hitches in his throat, still peppering sloppy kisses to the sensitive skin.

‘oh god,’ he whines into your collarbone, feeling his eyelashes flutter against your jaw. for a man who had been painted as womaniser in the media, he sure was still just as pathetic as he used to be underneath you.

you’re a little annoyed that it’s you who’s taking control right now. after so many years of disrespect from his end, you think he at least owed it to you to take charge.

your hand grabs onto his shoulder, pulling his face from your neck, ‘be quiet, okay?’ sitting taller to position yourself comfortably, the harsh fabric of the couch grazing your knees.

he nods, sliding his hand up your waist and back to your hip, taking in the sight of you. you wouldn’t ever admit it aloud, but truthfully, you really did miss him sometimes. missed the way his pretty pink lips looked after being glued to yours or the way he gazed at you doing the most mundane tasks.

you cant your hips, sinking down onto his length slowly, biting down onto your bottom lip as his cock fills you to the hilt. his eyelids flicker, fingernails digging into your doughy hips. it’s been a little while since you’d done this so you have to take a second to become accustomed to the slight stretch. it’s good, in the most masochistic way.

your hands cling onto his shoulders, watching his slack jaw, tiny breaths escaping from his mouth as you attempt to move. painstakingly slow at first, knees beginning to shake as you try to remember what you should even be doing. your cheeks flushing, feeling so incredibly embarrassed. the man was fucking models and then you’re here, pitifully trying to ride him. it’s awful, you know it’s awful.

his arm comes to snake around your waist, taking matters into his own hands and flipping the two of you around, your back suddenly pressed into the couch. holy shit. you appreciate the initiative, wrapping your legs around his waist, readjusting your grip on his shoulders.

‘need you a little faster than that darling,’ large hands digging into the couch either side of your head. you’d feel utterly mortified if you weren’t thoroughly enjoying the sight of him looming over you, his hair falling beautifully into your face.

eddie starts slow at first, moving his hips slowly, obviously well versed. your mouth opens but no noise escapes, well aware that you weren’t the only ones in your house. instead you pant softly, desperate for his lips to grace yours again.

it’s not long before he’s quickening his pace, unable to contain himself when you feel so perfect around him. ‘i missed you- fuck, i’ve missed you so much,’ he groans, keeping his voice low despite wanting to start screaming.

you don’t reply, too fucked-out to even think about words. eyes drooping as his cock nudges against the soft spongy spot no one other than him had been able to reach.

the couch creaks beneath you, the old thing unable to keep up with his rutting hips, the top of your head knocking into the arm rest every time his hips collided with yours. your living room had never bore witness to such filth and as quiet as you were trying to be, the sounds are indistinguishable.

having to bite down onto your lip when his thumb meets your clit, legs tightening around his waist with every soft circle he draws around the sensitive bud. eddie was never bad in bed but holy shit, maybe money had done something right for him.

he sits up, soft sighs falling out of his lips as his hand disconnects from your clit, sliding toward your knee and positioning your leg onto his shoulder. your nails press into his forearm, willing yourself to stay quiet even now he’s seemingly trying to kill you.

and through it all, he’s smirking. relishing the way you’re writhing around, trying not to cum when he nudges against that sweet, spongy spot this position allowed.

his thumb finds your clit again, ‘holy shit sweetheart.. you gonna cum?’ grunting softly with every thrust.

you’re positively wrecked beneath him, face pressed into the couch cushion as your stomach flips. panting into the fabric, incoherent ramblings of eddie’s name and a bunch of curse words fill the room.

‘cum for me baby.. shit,’ struggling to keep his own pace as you tighten around him, leg trembling around his neck as your orgasm takes over. pleasure overtaking your limbs as your hips buck instinctively, thankfully muffled by the couch.

‘oh my god,’ you breathe, struggling to see straight when your eyes eventually reopen, gazing up at eddie above, certain he’s about to draw blood from his teeth digging in to his lip.

‘where.. where shall i- shit,’ he squeezes out, feeling his hips begin to stutter, eyes rolling to the back of his head. he’s just about quick enough to pull out, thick ropes of cum paint your thighs. narrowly avoiding the couch.

if you had the energy to get annoyed, you would’ve snapped, but in all honesty, your brain was still reeling and anger was the last thing you felt.

eddie reaches over, ever the gentleman and grabs his shirt to clean his mess. didn’t matter to him obviously, he had more than enough money to buy another.

and there it is. the bitterness filling your body again the second he’s no longer on top of you, or inside of you rather. you attempt to bite it down.

‘you wanna talk now?’ he asks, pulling his boxers back up to a more respectable position.

‘i’m tired eddie,’ and you are, on a school night like tonight you’d have been fast asleep by now.

he sighs, shoulders slumping over. even after you’d just had the most mind-altering sex, you couldn’t speak to him. ‘please,’ pleading with you almost, desperate for one more chance.

maybe it’s the exhaustion or maybe the dopamine still pumping through your brain but you concede, pulling your shirt back over your head before motioning for him to speak.

‘i don’t have any excuses, i’m just-,’ he sighs, turning on the couch to face you fully, ‘i’m sorry for hurting you, i was wrong and i know that,’ his eyes are dipped, peering at you from underneath his spindly lashes, ‘why d’you think i’ve avoided this place for so long?’

‘i don’t know? because you’re a pussy? because you’re too scared to face me?’ letting the words rattle off your tongue without much thought.

‘because i’m embarrassed,’ he corrects, without much offence, ‘because i’m ashamed and feel like i owe you more than some dick and a shitty apology.. i just didn’t know how i could ever make it up to you,’ half-moon eyes glossy in the low light.

your heart thumps in your chest, blood echoing through your ears. eddie munson, world renowned rockstar was sat on your couch, apologising for something you should’ve forgotten about a long time ago.

the years of hatred and avoidance come tumbling down in a millisecond. all you’d ever wanted was to hear him say sorry. to admit that he’d fucked you over for a life of fame and now you had it, you weren’t exactly sure what to even do with it.

‘okay.. now what? are you gonna make it up to me? because i want to believe you eddie, i do.. but you can’t just traipse in here and expect me to forgive you like that,’ the tears roll over, sliding down your warm cheeks.

he nods, grabbing onto your hands in a last ditch gesture to show his sincerity, ‘i’m going to.. i-i want to,’ he’s still nodding, bringing his face closer to yours, ‘tell me how, i’ll do anything,’ adam’s apple bobbing with every word.

‘stay here,’ your eyes are trained on him, ignoring the blurred vision, ‘not forever, just for now,’ lips pursed, ready to be broken once more.

you half-expect him to come out with some sorry excuse, tell you he had to get back to his hotel so he couldn’t possible stay here.

but he doesn’t.

eddie takes your hand, tugging it gently and with words you don’t register, babbles something about bed. so you follow him, allowing him to guide you to your room and slide in between the sheets next to you.

everything is so gentle, soft and pure. something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

-

‘hey.. sweetheart,’ eddie’s hand gently shakes your arm, whispering into your ear, ‘you awake?’

you squint in the dim light, feeling his hand descend onto your waist, chest pressed against your back, ‘i am now,’ you grumble, it was early.. early even by ella’s standards.

‘i gotta go.. you got work today?’ he asks, making no effort to actually get up and leave your bed though.

you nod into the pillow, rubbing your sleep heavy eyes. in your sleep hazed state, you shuffle, moving backwards against him.

‘okay.. shit- don’t do that,’ strained as you shift against him, unknowingly brushing against his cock, ‘i’ll be back.. after you..’ he’s losing it a little now, ‘after you finish..’ lips pressed to your ear.

you were moving deliberately now, just ever-so-slightly rocking your hips back and forth, you could feel him growing against your ass.

‘i can’t..’ he groans, grip tightening on your hip,

‘please,’ you breathe, reaching backwards to find his mop of curls, taking a fistful for leverage as his own hip’s thrust into your backside, his low growls only spurring you on.

you had been on your own for so long now, could he really blame you?

eddie doesn’t leave for another hour, creeping out of your house with his head low and a shit eating grin plastered on his face.

-

the key turns in your door as you’re loading the dishwasher. you’d given steve a spare for emergencies but it seemed to get used for anything but.

he slinks into the kitchen where you stand with your back to him, ‘hey,’ already knowing who it was.

‘well hello,’ announcing his presence, something about his tone of voice already seemed off, he sounded short, annoyed almost, ‘how have you been?’

‘i’m good..’ you spin to face him, puzzled by his strange demeanour, ‘how are you?’

he’s holding onto something behind his back but you can’t quite catch a glimpse, ‘actually.. i’m a little pissed off,’ you can tell he’s not completely serious by the hint of a smile on his face.

‘hmm? why’s that?’

he looks around the room expectedly, ‘oh i don’t know.. you don’t have anything to tell me, do you?’ shaking his head, still gripping onto this mystery object.

‘no..’ narrowing your eyes, determining whether he knew what you thought he knew.

he did, he one hundred percent did. holy fuck. he’d figured you out already. eddie had opened his big, stupid mouth and told dustin, who would’ve told steve and god knows who else. fucking moron.

‘no? soo..’ his pulls the magazine from behind his back, flipping it to the page he’d already saved, ‘this isn’t real then?’ shoving the glossy pages into your face, ‘because to me.. this looks an awful lot like eddie.. at this very house,’ he jabs his finger at the pixelated image, ‘and this little blob here.. that’s you, no?’

you’re utterly gobsmacked. mouth hung open in pure shock. because that most definitely was eddie.. and your house.. and you. you hadn’t seen anyone with a camera, hell, you hadn’t seen anyone on the street at all.

‘and correct me if i’m wrong, but is this not our friend eddie leaving your house the next morning?’ showing the next image of him leaving your house the day after, hair unruly and messed up, holding his denim jacket in his arms as he climbs into his car.

your mouth moves but no words come out, croaking as you struggle to meet steve’s eyes. completely speechless, there was no feasible excuse. you had been caught with your pants down. literally.

‘i can explain,’ waving your hands around while steve stands smug against the kitchen counter. ‘..no i can’t,’ shoulders slumped as you blink at your best friend, no you really couldn’t. suppose you could’ve come up with some lie about a look-a-like you’d been seeing but that would’ve made you look particularly strange.

‘were you ever gonna tell me?’ he’s almost hurt that you hadn’t ran to him to tell him immediately. this was true best friend gossip and you’d kept him from it.

‘i was! steve.. i don’t even know what happened- he came over to apologise and then we were arguing and then.. then we had sex and it’s not my fault..’ you’re trying, and failing, to contain your smile, flashing your cheeky grin to your best friend in the hopes he would let this slide.

‘i can’t believe you didn’t tell me!’ jutting his bottom lip out, ‘so, you’re getting back together?’ his eyes sceptical yet sparkling with a sense of hope. you’re grateful that all he seems to care about is the fact you lied. or actually, withheld the truth as you preferred it.

‘no.. well.. no, we had dinner together yesterday and he might’ve stayed over but no..’ shaking your head, ‘he’s leaving again soon and we both know what happened last time..’ you shrug, leaning back against the counter, ‘i guess i don’t hate him now, that’s good isn’t it?’

steve looks perplexed, ‘wait wait wait.. so you’re just.. screwing around? and then he leaves again, that’s it? what’s the point?’ taking a seat at the small kitchen table, fully engrossed in the conversation.

‘i dunno.. i guess that’s it?’ you hadn’t really thought about the fact that he’d be leaving again, in fact, you hadn’t really had time to think much at all about what was happening.

you’d just sort of acknowledged that at some point he’d go back to california and you’d stay here and whatever was happening would.. end? it wasn’t as if you were going to be super upset about it like you once were. lots of people fuck their ex’s.. this was fine.

because that’s what this is, right?

just sex with an ex?

‘that’s it?’ steve reiterates, looking completely flabbergasted that the woman who once left the room whenever eddie munson’s name was mentioned was now being so casual about this.

‘yeah,’ you shrug, not wanting to make a massive deal out of it though you could always rely on steve to be over dramatic on your behalf.

‘no,’ he straightens up in the chair, ‘all of this can’t be for nothing,’ sounding utterly exasperated, ‘you two obviously belong together so why don’t you go for it? i could see you living it up out in la.. big house, big car-,’

you cut him off before he can divulge into his delusions any further, ‘i think you’re getting ahead of yourself steve,’ shaking your head at his ludicrous attitude.

you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it once or twice but it seemed silly to start imagining this crazy life together after all these years. he’d barely just made it into your good graces again, you were hardly going to run off to california with him. it was utter delusion.

‘okay okay..’ he scoffs, ‘but i still think you need to talk to him. i don’t want you getting hurt again, okay? just make sure that you’re both on the same page,’ nodding as he stands from his seat and begins to rummage through your cupboards for something to eat.

he was probably right and you knew it deep down. you weren’t keen on being the one to bring the conversation up, not after that first night. after you had sobbed in his arms in bed, letting him soothe you to sleep with a bunch of probable empty promises.

-

when eddie lets himself into your house a few hours later, steve’s eyebrows fly up his forehead but he doesn’t say a word. instead, he nods at the man, keeping his opinions to himself.

the pair of you resemble an old married couple, except you’re the grumpy old man with your wife cuddled into your side. your wife being steve that is.

‘oh.. is this uh, something that happens often?’ eddie asks, settling into the empty chair across from you. slightly miffed that steve was nestled into your side.

‘yup,’ you nod, smiling at him your chin resting on steve’s head. he hadn’t a reason to be jealous, you’d really rather poke your eyeballs out with a fork than do anything remotely sexual with steve.

‘right.. yeah okay,’ eddie says, looking perplexed but sitting back in the chair. if he was going to stick around then this would have to be something that he got used to. because you sure as hell weren’t going to stop being so close with steve for the guy that broke your heart at eighteen.

‘you want a drink?’ you ask, realising that you should probably be a good host even if it was only eddie.

‘yeah sure.’

you untangle yourself from steve and trundle off into the kitchen. steve takes this as the perfect opportunity to grill eddie on his intentions, sitting up straight and making sure that you were really gone before beginning his interrogation.

‘so.. you two?’

eddie shrugs, not wanting to get into it with steve after such a long day.

steve sighs, leaning toward eddie, ‘i’m gonna say this once.. but if you hurt her again, i will kill you,’ staring the other man down. contempt in his eyes. he was dead serious too.

‘i’m not- i’m not gonna hurt her,’ eddie sits up, praying that you’d hurry back with this damn drink.

‘i mean it eddie,’ raising his eyebrows, ‘you didn’t see how she was after you left.. i’m not going through that again, i’m not letting her go through that again.’

‘steve-,’ eddie blinks, stopping himself as you re-enter the room. hoping that you hadn’t heard their conversation, he’d only just got you to stop hating him. he wasn’t prepared to go back to that like, ever.

‘what’re you talking about?’ placing the bottle of beer in front of eddie and collapsing back into your spot on the couch.

‘football,’ steve answers quickly, groaning as he pushes himself off of the sofa, ‘i’m gonna head home, got work in the morning but i’ll see you tomorrow,’ he smiles, winking at you from above.

‘okay,’ you utter, sounding more like a question than a statement, watching carefully as he gathers his things without so much as a glance at eddie. you can only imagine what was actually said but that was truly none of your business.

you’d just grill eddie later to make sure steve hasn’t been too much of an asshole.

‘byee,’ you call out behind him, already eyeing a sheepish eddie. this’d probably be it. you’d known it was coming at some point, you just weren’t sure of when.

if steve’s sudden departure was anything to go off, you were probably right.

the door clicks shut and you turn your attention to eddie who was still sat on the solemn chair. oh god. maybe you had got a little used to having him around again and now to know that it’d all be coming to an abrupt end once again.. yeah you felt a tad shit.

‘what’d you say?’ you ask outright, it made zero sense to beat around the bush.

‘me?’ he looks almost offended, ‘i didn’t say shit.. didn’t get the chance to,’ but he’s smiling ever so slightly and your heart relaxes.

christ you were so stupid. letting him back into your life just to let him walk away a second time. perhaps you’d done something horrific in a past life to deserve this same fate twice.

‘so what did he say?’ you press, unsure of if your even wanted the answer.

eddie sighs before coming to collapse on the couch next to you, ‘it wasn’t important.. look, i wanna be honest with you,’ his hand comes to grab yours and you freeze, bracing yourself for what was inevitably going to come next. ‘you mean a lot to me and.. and i don’t want you to think that i don’t care or that i’m just leaving you again,’ his eyes are focussed on yours, full of what you hope is sincerity.

you don’t reply, instead you nod slightly and urge him to continue. this was it. the kicker. 

‘i’ve gotta go back to la next week,’ his grip tightens around your hand, ‘but i’m coming back as soon as i can, okay?’ he’s serious too and you’d like to believe him but if the past was anything to go by, you weren’t eager.

you nod silently. fuck this. once again, you were sat before eddie munson, listening to his plans to jet off to la. it felt like the cruelest case of deja-vu. if anything, you want to kick yourself for even allowing him to wiggle his way back into your heart. most people know better after the first time.

‘it’s three weeks.. maybe a month, but i’m coming back, i promise,’ he pleads, hanging his head low. he knows there’s absolutely nothing he could say to you that would make you believe him but he had to try.

you hum, frowning just a little before finally replying, ‘i’ve heard that before,’ not meaning to sound as snarky as you did, but it was true.

‘i’m serious, i’m not.. not gonna lose you again, i’ve learnt my lesson,’ his eyes are big and pleading and you’re thrown right back to being eighteen, listening to him convince you how going to la would be the best decision.

‘so.. what? you’re gonna come back to hawkins just to see me? i don’t-,’ you sigh, as much as you wanted to believe him, it just wasn’t plausible in your mind, ‘i just don’t understand, are we together or are you just coming back to fuck? you don’t have to, you know? i’ve made peace with it all and i’m fine.. you don’t have to lie to me anymore.’

if anyone was going to fuck this up, it would be you. that’s for certain.

‘what the fuck?’ he exclaims, genuinely flabbergasted, ‘this is me telling you that i’m serious about this.. about you,’ he takes your hand into his properly, scooting around to face you fully, ‘i love being here with you, and ella and there is nothing out in la worth more than this,’ you think he might just start crying, or you might. or perhaps both of you.

you sniff, not wanting to speak in fear of bursting into hysterics. it was all just so confusing and weird. you’d grown accustomed to eddie being on the other side of the country and now suddenly he was back in your life with what seemed like a a declaration of love. it was just too much to handle. and maybe you blame yourself a little, for not truly thinking about the implications of fucking your ex that had abandoned you years prior. but now it all just seemed to be hurtling in the most intense direction.

you were the one that had told him to stay after all. because really, you could’ve kicked him out, refused to ever even acknowledge him again. but you hadn’t.

‘are you telling me the truth?’ is all that you manage to squeak out. baring resemblance to a small child.

you really must’ve looked pathetic, eyes brimming with tears, bottom lip quivering as you hold in the implosion of emotions. it’s always scary being vulnerable with someone, let alone someone that once meant so much to you.

he still did. as much as you’re absolutely petrified to admit it, he’d weaselled his way back into your heart and now here you are, a mess of emotions and perplexing feelings that are too complicated to handle.

‘i promise you,’ he sighs, clearly fed up of your whining, ‘i’m coming back this time.’

and maybe you’re stupid. maybe you’re still hung up on some high school relationship that ended long ago but you can’t help it, you nod.

idiotically believing him because what else can you do after letting him into your home and your heart again.

[aerialflight]

fic rec list (2025 and all the random fandoms and ships i got stuck in)

It's truly been ages since I made a list and I'm not kidding when I say I've been wildly going back and forth in old and new fandoms. Yes, it includes arcane. It was short lived and glorious and I have so many to share with you now that the fever has passed (somewhat). Anyway! Hope you enjoy! (Also, I think this is the most shippy fic rec list I've ever made, it's fucking ridiculous fnewiofpewa)

-

[Arcane] (i want it noted that i was a jayce fan since s1 and the vindication i felt at the flood of jayce/viktor fics that came in after s2 was unparalleled. so yeah, nearly all the arcane fics on this list have this ship. sue me.)

Balance (this world is a wasteland but we can still grow) by zillac

Ship: Jayce/Viktor

Viktor stays in the Hexcore chrysalis a few more hours. Jayce stays busy falling into the ravine of an alternate dimension and fighting his way back to his partner so that they can invent something new together: a future. ~~~ “What am I?” Viktor asked. “What do you want to be?” Jayce was bearded and haggard and hopeful. “Yours,” Viktor said, a memory and a realization both, like it was a truth that was woven into each of his metal and organic molecules.

(i need fix it fics like i need to breathe, especially for these two. it's not too long and hit the right spot for me when it came to the hurt/comfort, and there were some fucking lines here that legit made me look it up because it was so fucking beautiful and i needed to know if the author really came up with it, goddamn it. also, when i say fix it, i mean in general, not just for the ship. and caitlyn and jayce's relationship was so nice here, i loved it!)

Recourse Pathways by begaydocrimes10001

Ship: Jayce/Viktor

Jayce blinked once. He blinked again. There was the sun, and clouds, and when Jayce ran his hand over his cheeks, there was barely any stubble. (Jayce and Viktor find themselves in the past, just a few hours before a group of Undercity kids broke into Jayce's lab and sparked a chain of events that would later end the world. They get a second shot at preventing it, and, maybe, creating something better in its place.)

Part 1 of State of Matter Changes

(listen, i know that the fandom is bloated with time travel fix its by this point and i'm just as much as a sucker for them too, but i'm more in love with this series because of how much focus it puts on other characters and the chain reaction viktor and jayce's actions have beyond this first fic. truly, after part 1, the series shifts to other characters such as silco, vander, mel, and even sevika more. every fic expands and extends the series of events that occur to make zaun independent and what that actually means. it's so freaking good and the characterization and focus of each character and their perspective is excellent! even if you're not that into jayce/viktor, once you get past the initial part 1 of this series, you'll end up loving the political machinations that happen in the rest.)

Dress me in midnight, feast upon my bones by hexhomos

Ship: Jayce/Viktor

The rocket strikes through the heart. Reality collapses in less than five seconds. Jayce rebuilds Viktor, little by little, piece by piece. And if his partner comes back from the dead a little different, well... what's not to love? Jayce is a quick study. He can adjust himself into a suitable form. He pledged himself to this task a dozen years ago; he's in it for the long haul. * To put it bluntly: this is the one where Dr. Frankenstein runs away with his bride. ( Jayce follows Viktor down to the depths of Zaun, and amid the riots and war-banners, everything changes. )

(*screeEEEEAACH!!!* INSANE. TRULY AND POSITIVELY INSANE. GOD HELP ME I LOVE THIS FIC SO MUCH OH MY GOD FNEIOWFPEWA)(for the LOVE OF GOD the way this author fucking expands the idea of jayce being a goddamn immigrant and what that means, the author just fucking GETS him, AND VIKTOR IS A MAD SCIENTIST AND I STAND BY THIS SO FUCKING HARD HELL YEAH!! i just, god, GOD, the author got them so RIGHT. i know i'm yelling a lot, but seriously, it's so good. it's so so so good nfewofewa)(READ!!)

Forged in Fire by chicandcheesy

Ship: Jayce/Viktor

Jayce Talis has lived in the Undercity since he was eight. Now, he's a blacksmith with more scars and trauma than cash. He’s tired, broke, and frankly, just trying not to lose his mind. Then Viktor—a reclusive scientist who had been expelled from the Academy—walks into his forge one day. Suddenly, Jayce's life is turned upside down. Between questionable alliances, sexual tension, and Viktor’s maddening habit of being too smart for his own good, Jayce starts to think he might actually go mad. But if anyone’s worth the trouble, it's Viktor. - (A Zaunite Jayce AU)

(i am and always shall be in love with the idea of zaunite!jayce. it just, oof, hits me in the gut. the idea of someone so optimistic as jayce being rundown and hardened by zaun makes me feral. i love how you can see how much he's changed yet stayed the same compared to canon. every fic writer has their own idea of what jayce would be like if he lived in zaun and it's fascinating every time. also, it's so funny how much viktor is the same yet the power dynamics between them have been flipped. god, i can go on, but please just read the fic, it's so good fnewiofpnewe)

Run It Back Again by Withercrown

Ships: Jayce/Viktor, Silco/Vander

Sometimes there's nothing you can do except scrap the whole experiment and start over. The worst possible outcome becomes an opportunity for a new beginning. Viktor and Jayce, estranged enemies in a brutal war, go back to the start - and then earlier than that. The key to their salvation ends up being an undercity brat named Silco. He's not quite the person they remember. (Completed. Updates frequently.)

(so while i'm not as into the league of legends lore, i do have a soft spot for the divorce era versions of jayce and viktor. and man, it makes me cackle watching jayce fumble his way into viktor's good graces lmao. and silco!! is a fucking ally cat and i love him in this fic so much!! and the fact jayce has to play nice with so many people who hates his guts fill me with glee lol. seriously, please read if you love time travel, the divorced era, and seeing jayce suffer. it's a good time XD)

Butterfly Nebulas by MalaMari

Ship: Jayce/Viktor

In a whirlwind, one can have everything, nothing, then everything again. In a single night, a near stranger stood at Jayce's side at both his darkest and brightest moments. Sometimes, the presence of a single person can change everything. Aka: Arcane, but focused on Jayce and Viktor where everyone gets more friends and (maybe) a happier ending.

(first and foremost, this fic is very much friendship based and the banter is absolutely what sold me to this fic. it's just so much fun to read?? and the relationship between caitlyn, jayce, and viktor is so heartwarming and believable in how much they care about each other. and while the plot in itself is slow, you can see how the author is building up the canon divergence brick by brick through every relationship and interaction that occurs. this fic is a slow burn both in the ship and in the plot and i appreciate the time and effort the author is spending to do it. please read this fic, i'm so excited to see where it goes!)

Of Memories and Tomorrows by Lieyantosh

Ship: Jayce/Viktor

Instead of dissolving with Viktor like Jayce expected, he gets sent a decade into the past when Viktor didn’t even know him yet. Of course the logical action to take is to kidnap him. Meanwhile Viktor, twenty-two years old, figures that hey, as long as he can research magic, this isn’t too bad of a predicament. Or: Post-Season 2 Jayce and Season 1 Viktor, the grief of having lost your soulmate while having to look at his younger version who doesn’t even know you, the endless exhaustion of being a second-hand love and also science.

(this is hands down my fave fic on this list, no questions asked. just, GOD, jayce is so fucking feral and deranged and insanely in love with viktor, and viktor who doesn't know him from adam just has to Deal with that lmao. but yeah, this fic was both incredibly healing and sad and genuinely unnerving at times because, like i said, jayce is fucking unhinged here lol. i reread this 3 times and i just fell in love with this fic so hard and fast, it's ridiculous. please read, it's so freaking good fnewiofpea)

Men of Progress by Zairielon

Ship: Jayce/Viktor

On a frozen tundra, a mystical figure makes the decision to save Jayce's life. Thus begins a journey of destiny, the indomitable strength of the human soul, and love that transcends death, all bound together by the Arcane. The Mage gives Jayce and Viktor a chance to change their fate. And the two humans push back against the natural order of time. Maybe, just maybe... life is not set in stone. OR, Jayce does not lose their dream. And he will never let Viktor slip through his fingers.

(*YELLS EXCITEDLY* IT UPDATED!! hey, HEY, if you didn't know, you know now. this fic, which didn't update in 2 years, FINALLY UPDATED and finished the fic! truly and sincerely, this was one of my fave fics back when and i fucking YELLED when i saw this got completed. seriously, this is still one of the best arcane time travel stories i ever read! please read!!)

In Loco Parentis by Anonymous

Ship: Jayce/Viktor

The boy blinks a few times, shaking his head before he looks around, his eyes darting from all different parts of the ravine. Viktor instinctively takes a step back when his eyes land on him, grasping his cane even tighter. “Uh hi?” Viktor points his cane at him. “Who-Who are you?” He tries to make his voice sound strong, the way that the men that haggle for money do, but it comes out shaky. “Are you going to hit me with that?” The boy eyes the cane warily. “Maybe.” Viktor juts a chin out. “If you don’t tell me who you are.” “Oh!” The boy brightens. “I’m Jayce! Or: During the rescue with the Mage, Jayce gets transported to the Undercity and meets Viktor instead, and everything spirals from there.

(the fic that started my obsession with zaunite!jayce. i know it's incomplete. do i care? no, no i do not. i reread this obsessively for literal YEARS. also, ALSO, with the context of s2, this fic just fucking hits different now. truly, if there's a fic i want to write fics for, it's this goddamn fic, its HAUNTS me fnioewfewew)(please read, i beg of you!)

If you're gonna be the death of me [that's how I wanna go] by Caspercryptid (FaiaHae)

Ship: Ekko/Jinx

Jinx has loved Ekko over half her life, so she's not shocked when she starts coughing up flowers.

(hey! it's a wild ekko/jinx fic! but yeah, the idea that it's this couple in particular who got hanahaki made me brain spiral like a hamster in a wheel. really love how the author writes jinx and absolutely recommend it!)

the dust inside the rusted souls by MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays

Ship: Jayce/Viktor

Viktor is dying. This is nothing new. He’s been dying since he was born, since he took his first acrid lungful of Fissure air, and he accepted his premature expiration long ago. Everyone has to die anyways, right? All the Fissure had done was move up the finish line. That doesn’t make it any easier. —— Or, Viktor never tries Shimmer, and his death is the slow, painful erosion that everyone said it would be.

(so fucking angsty with no happy ending, and yet one of the most beautiful fics i've read in a while. and the way the author wrote viktor was so accurate it actually hurt, goddamn. even though it doesn't end happy for viktor, i still believe this fic ended with some hope and i love that. please give this a chance, it's really good!)

scientist and scientist by milkbird

Ship: Jayce/Viktor

“If this Hextech thing doesn't work out,” Jayce drawls, slow and sweet, head still dangling awkwardly from his neck, except now he's facing Viktor. “You know what we should do?” This is a joke Viktor isn't in on. But now he's intrigued, so he draws up his good leg and rests his elbow on it, letting the quiet hum of music wash over him. “What,” he asks, “Should we do, Jayce?” Jayce is holding in a laugh. “Suicide pact.” (Public appearances are boring. Viktor steals Jayce away, and they reflect.)

(this fic screams neurodivergent and i fucking LOVE it! it's so funny and yeah! these two are mad fucking scientists! let them be weird!! it felt real in a way where i definitely have friendships like theirs where i can be weird with someone and they'll say ditto. it just has that vibe and it's so damn good!)(#Jayce is hot and sincere and also weird as hell)(this is literally one of the tags and it's what convinced me to give it a go. i have no regrets!)

destabilise by antiparticular

Ship: Jayce/Viktor

Jayce was naked and in Viktor's bed. Don't get him wrong - Viktor had dreamed of this happening, both literally and on slow days in the lab when he was feeling particularly self-indulgent, but for it to manifest outside of his overactive imagination? He was half tempted to pinch himself to check he'd actually awoken. Why was Jayce Talis in Viktor's bed? And more pressingly, why did Viktor not remember? -- We've all seen the fics where Jayce and Viktor end up in their past bodies post S2 and immediately get down and dirty about it, but what if their trip to the past wasn't as permanent as they expected?

Part 1 of destabilise

(*cackles like a madman* this was so fucking funny and i NEED people to read this. it truly never occured to me that there would be an aftermath of s2 jayce and viktor hopping around through space when there absolutely would be! of course! and it's just as funny as you think it is! if you need a good laugh, please read!)

-

[The Witcher] (i know, i'm surprised too. why brain, why.)

Songs of War by StarsAreMassive

Ship: Geralt/Jaskier

Life after Oxenfurt wasn't what Jaskier thought it would be. Dull and uninspired, what is a bard to do? Other than drag a half dead witcher back to his room, thus setting off a chain of events that start a war and and pave the way for a new Warlord in the North. Meanwhile, witchers all over the Continent are pushed to breaking point. Geralt wants to know who this fucking bard is who keeps singing about him. And Letho establishes a venomous hatred for lutes.

(so, i read the warlord fic and became so fascinated by the concept. i truly understand why the premise spawned hundreds of fics now, it's such a fun idea to play with. but this fic made me desperately want more in a way that consumed me. it's an origin story of why geralt became a warlord and honestly? it built up to it so well and with so much humor at first, courtesy to jaskier who goes Through It in this fic lmao. it steadily gets more serious and it made me so eager to know what happens next. please give it a read, it's so well written and is such a believable origin story for the warlord idea.)

Standing in Time with You by Sapphire09

Ship: Geralt/Jaskier

Cornflower eyes opened to the sight of a dark wooden ceiling full of holes. He noted the holes absently, a familiar sight he equated to his life while still on the road, wondering where he is. The last he remembered was the tall ceiling of his Oxenfurt chamber. He also remembered the pain. Weird, how the afterlife looks like the room of an inn. ------ Jaskier remembers being dead. That doesn't explain why he wakes up looking like he was fresh from the Oxenfurt graduating class instead of the handsome, distinguished professor he actually is. Nothing is making much sense, honestly. He just hopes he's not just going completely crazy first before figuring anything about what the fuck happened, or is happening.

(time travel! it's unfinished but god! it's so good!! this fic both made me laugh so hard and had me feeling so bad for jaskier lmao. god i hope this fic gets updated one day, but even if not, i hope this fic inspires others to write more time travel fics in the witcher fandom. the possibilities are endless!! absolutely recommend!)

Roll for Initiative by Draco_sollicitus

Ship: Geralt/Jaskier

En route to game night, a beautiful, mysterious woman falls on Julian Pankratz out of nowhere. She mistakes him for a real bard and then starts talking nonsense about "portals," as if they haven't been outlawed on the Continent for half a millennium. She gifts him magical dice, urging him to "save the White Wolf." Julian, playing Dungeons and Dragons as the fabulous bard Jaskier, rolls a Nat 20 while trying to gain an ally in the murderous Butcher of Blaviken - and is instantly transported to a very strange world similar to the Redania of centuries past. There, he meets the real Butcher, a stoic and sarcastic Witcher named Geralt. Julian also quickly discovers that in this world, he has something that other bards don't: Jaskier the bard really does have magic, and quite a bit of it too - something that both interests and worries Geralt. The Witcher and the bard's quest for answers brings adventure, surprises, heartache, magic, healing -- and maybe a little bit of true love.

(*points vehemently* i've been saying for years that i've wanted to read a witcher fic that involves d&d and it's here! i somehow missed it and it's here!! genuinely had so much fun reading this, jaskier having the same abilities as a d&d bard had me grinning so hard. the possibilities!! also, it's reader interactive! the comment section of the fic was just as much fun to read as the fic, i truly could not predict how the plot would go because depending on the roll of a d20, the plot can go anywhere. love this idea and how well the author executed it! seriously, please give this fic a go! it's a fun time, i promise XD)

The Wanderer's Choice by Little_vesuvius

Ship: Geralt/Jaskier

Julian has never been normal. He has a talent, a gift that is both debilitating and powerful. He has always heard the songs of everyone, everywhere, he goes. His mind is never quiet. The longer he stays in a place the louder the songs get. With every passing year in a city, he grows sicker, and no healer can help him against the crushing noise of the songs of every living being in Oxenfurt. So when he has the opportunity to travel, he does so as Jaskier the Bard. In Posada, Jaskier finds an angry, silent man brooding in a corner, with a loud enough song to drown out the world's crush of noise. Curious, he follows the man, only to discover he is the infamous Butcher of Blaviken - but a man with such a sad, lonely song surely isn't a monster. Geralt just wants to know why this fool of a bard is following him on hunts and won't leave him alone, even knowing his reputation. It's not like anyone really wants to be around him. The bard will get sick of the novelty soon, surely. Or his temper. Filavandrel just wants his people to be left in peace. Finding an old elvish legend in the form of a human bard is the last thing he expects when he captures a witcher.

Part 1 of Heartsong AU

(i've always loved the jaskier is not human trope, and this fic was so creative?? it has a part 2 too and i'm just really fascinated by how the author explored this power jaskier has in this fic. it's really interesting and i definitely recommend!)

-

[Star Trek] (another unexpected fandom i haven't looked at in a long time. see a pattern? also, mckirk won me over HARD.)

Hotspur by kurgaya

Ship: Jim Kirk/Leonard McCoy

try. verb. 1. to attempt to do or accomplish; 2. to subject to strain, as of endurance, patience, or tax; 3. to determine the truth of (a quarrel or question) by test or battle [Academy Era]. "God forbid you're a Shakespearean wife then," Bones grumbles, and Jim laughs.

(finished this recently and i swear, i felt ALL the emotions, holy shit. this fic is made to break and fix your heart. jim has a service dog due to Tarsus Trauma and it's accurately depicted with respect and empathy. and Bones is depressed, which i do feel like i need to tag as a warning (please read the fic's tags), it got very Real at times. but man, it explores his depression in ways that hit me right in the chest. definitely brought up things i haven't thought about it a long while. but the healing process absolutely made this worth reading, i definitely cried at some parts. also, as an added bonus, it has a fake marriage trope embedded in the premise that brings a lot of hilarity and warmth to it in very interesting ways! please read, it's such a unique, very funny at times, and undeniably compassionate fic that explores trauma and recovery beautifully, with all the ugliness that comes with it.)

AsQ by laughter_now

Ship: Jim Kirk/Leonard McCoy

It started out as an ordinary day. So ordinary in fact that it took Jim until late in the afternoon to realize that something was horribly wrong. It was unusual that Bones wasn't in Sickbay during a busy shift, but it wasn't unheard of. What was wrong, absolutely and terrifyingly wrong, was that Bones wasn't even on board. In fact, nobody aboard the Enterprise has ever heard of a Leonard McCoy. There is no record of anyone by that name ever serving in Starfleet. In fact, there is no record of him at all. And that is so wrong that Jim can't even find any words for it.

(is it weird if i say that this is the most enraging and heartbreaking fic i've read for jim kirk? not even tarsus made me this pissed off. jim goes through so so much?? yet the catharsis somehow makes it worth it and i don't have any regrets reading this. not gonna lie, this was hard to read at first, but i literally couldn't stop reading due to the twists and turns this rollercoaster of a fic took me on. seriously, if you want a fic that has mystery, tension, and has you yelling out in triumph, this is absolutely for you.)

Quell the Cosmic Tides by SpocksBrainWorms

Ship: Jim Kirk/Spock

Enterprise is safe to fly another day. All thanks to Captain James T. Kirk's sacrifice. He's made peace with his death, even though it breaks his heart one final time to see the hurt in Spock's eyes. Still, the last thing he gets to see is the face of one of his dearest friends... until his eyes snap back open. Not in a hospital. In a shuttle as it lands at the Academy. “Once you exit the shuttle you are free to return to your dorms. Those of you who are new, you’ll follow me to registration and physicals,” a vaguely familiar-looking officer says, and Jim’s heart stops in his chest. Surprising, considering it shouldn’t be beating at all.

(god, GOD, i'm so so in love with this fic, it's ridiculous! THE time travel fic of this fandom other than lullabyknell's. sincerely, if you haven't read this fic yet, for the love of god, PLEASE do, it's fantastic!!)

When the world comes in by bluejbird

Ship: Jim Kirk/Leonard McCoy

Everyone is blessed with a gift, but Jim's isn't as exciting or useful as the rest of his family. His gift is dreaming of his soulmate. As hard as it is to watch his soulmate live without him, the dreams provide comfort during times when Jim would otherwise give up. Or, the one where Jim spends his life dreaming of Bones.

Part 7 of Interconnected

(honestly? you can read any of the other fics in this series, they're all soulmate fics but in different ways and they're all very very good! this just happens to be my favorite in the series XD.)

Not in Our Stars by emluv

Written for a prompt requesting a fic in which brilliant young medical student Leonard McCoy volunteers for a Doctors Without Borders-type organization and ends up helping with the rescue efforts on Tarsus IV, where he meets a teenage, traumatized Jim Kirk, who will, for whatever reason, allow only McCoy to treat him. I have played fast and loose with TOS information about Tarsus IV and its location, making it closer to Earth so that McCoy could feasibly make it there and back in one summer. Title taken from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, Act I, scene ii: “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in our selves...”

(a gen fic? on this shippy fic rec list? more likely than you think. but yeah, young mccoy hit me where it hurts and i could just see the more grumpy, cantankerous man he'll become. and yet he's still so endlessly compassionate no matter the age. something that this jim definitely needs. the slow building trust between the two and the sheer competency mccoy shows here made me fall in love with this fic. truly, i should've gotten more into the star trek fandom, there's so many fics out there to be read!)

exclamation (not an explanation) by TheWriter2

Ship: Jim Kirk/Spock

"Just before he makes it to the door, Spock realizes that if he is about to throw Vulcan propriety to the wind and embrace his humanity, then he had better do it properly." Having rejected his admission to the VSA, Spock finds himself with very few options. Still angry at his father and Vulcan, Spock decides to join Starfleet and honor his human heritage. There’s only one problem— the Vulcan High Council has banned Vulcans from joining Starfleet, claiming that the organization is abhorrently militaristic. So Spock decides to defy the odds and find a way to enlist. But the road to a starship is full of many pitfalls, and at every turn Spock risks someone realizing his Vulcan heritage and facing a court martial. To Spock, though, it’s all worth it; especially after he meets a bright young cadet who can take Spock to the stars with only a glance.

(this was the cutest fucking fic i've ever read omg!! spock is so! awkward and adorable and i just want to hug him so bad fnewofepwaf. the idea of spock having to pretend to be human mulan au style is fucking inspired, it's so funny and cute! seriously, if you just want a fic that fires endorphins in your brain, this is absolutely for you!!)

-

[Crossovers]

Whatever Can Die is Beautiful by UrieNanashi

Fandoms: The Witcher, Elden Ring

Ship: Geralt/Jaskier

Jaskier is finally free. After so long trapped in a form not his own he had begun to doubt which was his true self. But here he is, unshackled. The betrayals, violence, abandonment- the destruction his family wrought upon themselves and others, all of it left far behind. Jaskier is determined to enjoy this second chance. To bask in the beauty of life and ignore what horrors linger. Then he meets Geralt and things become complicated. ......................................................... “They don’t exist.” “Pardon?” The bard’s brown hair flops as he tilts his head. Geralt bravely doesn’t sigh again. “The monsters in your songs. They don’t exist.” For some reason that gets him a grin, “How do you know?” Geralt stares at him. “I’m a Witcher.” The bard laughs, “So just because you’ve never seen them that means they don’t exist?” “Yes.” Geralt says flatly. “Agree to disagree.” The man says flippantly, “But I would love to hear more about the monsters you’ve fought.” “No.” Geralt takes a drink desperately and finds he is almost at the bottom of his tankard. He contemplates whether it’s worth the coin for another. Probably not.

(truly, you don't really need to know anything about elden ring before reading the fic. i went into it without knowing anything and the fic still resonated with me. this fic feels episodic, with a monster of the week and both characters slowly getting to know each other through their adventures. i love jaskier and how he's depicted here, with all his secrets that he's trying to run from. the ambiance of the fic really seeps into you and pulls you into the story. absolutely recommend and you go into this blind without knowing anything, trust me.)

The Case of Leonard McCoy by AceOfSpades

Fandoms: Doom (2005), Star Trek

Ship: Jim Kirk/Leonard McCoy

The first thing Jim noticed about McCoy, and what started him on this whole messy path, was that McCoy was just a little…off.

Part 1 of Investigations

(listen, LISTEN, even if you've never seen Doom, it's legit one of the most suspenseful, cat and mouse mystery fics i've read in ages. seriously, it's so much fun to read, especially when both characters are so intelligent and every move makes sense and creeping ever closer to the truth. even though bones is also a different character, he's still definitely bones, just multilayered. like an onion! and jim is so persistent and perfectly kirk here, no wonder bones fell for him haha! absolutely recommend even if you've never watched doom, though it definitely helps in understanding what's going on on bones' side and adds to reader enjoyment. please read!)

[quitealotofsodapop]

BTW, it just occurred to me, and it might just be a very sweet thought. So in penumbra au, the reason for the babies to be born is that Macaque had left some of his clones behind on the mountain to protect it. Wukong himself had found them after returning and. Ouls not bear the thought of the last piece of his late master fading away as clones normally do when their original self dies, so he started using his own magic to try to sustain them. He was only aware of the two, Rumble and Savage, and had no knowledge about Thunder's existence. So, how did Thunder survive/sustain themselves long enough to turn into a baby monkey?

The answer is his siblings. Somehow, someway, back then, they were still just clones, Rumble and Savage still cared enough about their third clone to share the dao Wukong had poured into them with Thunder. Even tho they should, theoretically, not have the ability to make a decision like that since they were just clones back then. That's also why Thinder took so much longer/is much more fragile compared to their siblings because they were essentially just receiving whatever dao they could spare form what Wukong would give them (which was a lot since Wukong's doa is particularly powerful but still only enough to really sustain the two clones and not a third unknown clone)

Because of this, Rumble and Savage are particularly protective of Thunder, as is Wukong, who understands his mistake had made his youngest much more fragile than they should be. Tbf, no one really blames him since he hadn't even known that Thunder was there (which considering Thunder was meant to guard his marriage nest sets off all sorts of complicated feelings in Wukong) but it's still something Wukong blames himself for

Prev.

oohhhh thats so sweet and a little sad! ;_;

The twin shadows noticed that their triplet was not receiving the same attention from their "mother", and sought him out to share the donated life energy between them. This is probably the reason why it took so long for the shadows to collapse into new individual souls - they were running on a third-low of energy.

I wouldn't be surprised if the first thing the twins did upon gaining physical form was try and toddle towards the royal bedroom - knowing that their brother was there alone. Their distress probably is what clued Wukong in to checking the Stone Palace in the first place.

Even when their little brother is still a shadow clinging to Mom; the twin girls spit and puff up at anyone that comes too close to him (even MK!). Once he's able to move around on his own, they watch over him like bodyguards.

Wukong feels SO GUILTY once he realises what happened. He had been too depressed to return to living in the Stone Palace, and therefore his and Macaque's marriage nest, after the shadow monkey's passing. Had he'd been more vigilant, he could have found Thunder a lot earlier.

Wukong is super protective of his little thunderbolt, but recognises that once Thunder is able to separate from his shadow that the cub needs to practice a little independence. Still a huge mama's boy tho, there's no changing that.

Macaque also recognises that the clone he left to guard the bedroom is the weaker of the three. He's unsure if he would have felt better if he wasn't. Wukong still took the time to ponder his late mate's weapons and theatre effects enough to find and keep his remaining shadows.

The second Macaque is back for good, he reclaims the marriage nest. If Wukong happens to crawl in to join him without question, then thats a bonus. However this means that the nest is now besieged by cuddly little cubs wanting to be held by their parents nearly every night. XD

[lilac-sweet]

Varric might still be alive and here’s why:

So this is going to sound like massive amounts of copium, but hear me out:

Why does the veil not collapse immediately after Elgar’nan’s death?

It is made out of and tied to the life force of the Evanuris, so with all of them dead it should fall, right? But it doesn’t - it holds long enough for Solas and Rook to have a heart-to-heart. So what gives? Are there some leftover life force from the other Evanuris ? Are they not as dead as we are led to believe? Falon’Din’s owl statues are certainly hinted at being somehow important since we can happen upon multiple of them and see they are tied to some sort of weird magic.

Or has the dagger preserved a fragment of those it has killed (just like it did with Mythal), and that is what’s keeping the veil up? Since all it takes to be tied to the veil is a cut (apparently), it begs the question: can a mortal be tied to the veil?

Lyrium is such an interesting aspect of Dragon Age lore, and it seems to work as a vessel for spirits: it is what the ancient elves used to bind themselves to the physical world; it is what held Mythal’s spirit fragment inside the dagger; it might be what the dwarves are actually referring to when they say they “return to the stone”; it might also be why lyrium sings, and “Isatunol” would be the accumulation of dwarven spirits flowing through the rivers of lyrium within the Titans.

In that way, Varric might actually have been the first dwarf in a long time to “return to the Stone” - and what happens to Harding when she touches the dagger? She becomes something very much like a titan! Her magic might literally be Varric’s spirit coursing through her body - her body does become lyrium-infused as you see in her romance.

So is it possible a piece of Varric lives on in Harding? Absolutely. It would also be another explanation on what the Varric who visits Rook in the prison of regret actually is. If he is tied to the veil he might have had access to the prison somehow. Solas’ blood magic should have ceased by now, since any further use would be unnecessary and cruel (which would be out of character for Solas), and the only other explanation for him being there, that I can think of, would be as a guide that Rook has conjured up subconsciously and is part of the magic of the regret prison just like whichever companions you chose to sacrifice.

Helping to hold up the veil while Rook deals with Solas just sounds like something Varric would totally do (and I can’t help becoming a bit misty-eyed thinking he might be there with us in the final hour) - of course it might be Ghilan’nain’s fragment doing the heavy lifting here, but it’s not nearly as poetic.

In the ending scene we see a picture of Varric in the skies: it might be a way to honor the end of his story arc, or it might be a way to imply him watching over us still (maybe both).

It is going to be interesting to see which direction the next Dragon Age game will take: the Executors and Those Across The Sea seem to have a connection to not only Qunari and the Elven Gods, but to death as well. We hear how everything turns cold around the executors and hear the same whenever we meet a lich or Vorgoth in the Necropolis. We are also told the Watchers guard many secrets, so who knows, maybe the next game will explore more about what happens after death to the inhabitants of Thedas, and in that (lyrium) vein maybe if we’re really lucky we’ll get to dive more into dwarven lore as well.

[unsoundedcomic]

Whumptober 2024 - 23 - “Forced Choice”

((First part here))

When first the Lady whispered to me of a cache of forgotten wisdom hidden in the heart of Mmatont Anchert, the image of a library had blossomed in my mind's eye: dusty parchments, fat worm-eaten tomes, crumbling scrolls crowding each other for space on warped and collapsing shelves.

What I had not envisioned was what Rahm and I found when our gruff guide opened the Living Wood door.

A breeze colder than ice assailed us from a chamber of unbroken blackness. I could see no ceiling and see no walls; only a rectangle of floor smeared golden before our feet by the light of the Soud's torch. I stepped into it. My boots crunched over the fragile granules of ancient insect carapaces and layers and layers of… bird droppings?

The door closed behind us suddenly - very theatrical, pissmop! - and Rahm and I were in the dark.

"A moment, a moment," he muttered. I imagined him smacking his lighter against the heel of his hand and yes, it cracked suddenly to life with a muted blue burst. Despite the chill, Rahm's face was shiny with sweat, eyes wide, nostrils flared. I imagine my expression was similar, though more handsome of course.

"It stinks like Juste," I whispered.

"Birds."

Aye. Birds. I hooked his elbow with my own and we moved deeper into the room. Rahm thrust the wee pymaric light before us, but it made few inroads through the ink: no walls, no structural planes to catch the glow and reveal themselves; only an empty void where we had expected so much.

"I hope that boy is all right," Rahm said suddenly. I yelped a nervous laugh - I could not help it! - and he tensed against my arm.

"You know they have killed him. Let it go. He was nothing to us. Perhaps he touched children or worse! Licked his fingers at the supper table! Put your mind on why we've come."

My arm was colder and the room a bit blacker when he pulled away from me. "You're an asshole, Bastion. I know where your mind is."

"My mind is fixed firmly upon obtaining the algorhythms needed to chase the pieces of the scattered human soul, I have never hidden this-"

"In order to bring your sister back!" Rahm sounded triumphant, as though he was exposing to the light some long hidden and grimy secret. I always did love my self-righteous friend. And so I hated to scoff at him, but I cannot control my ego when it is in control. Which is often. Daily. Hourly.

"I had to pick SOME deceased subject, Rahm. She is as good as any other. I knew her well, I can identify whatever mind that reconstitutes as either belonging to her, or evidencing too aberrently. Should I have chosen that lovely young soprano who threw herself off the Spire last year, bashing her pretty brains out all over Rue Jonovan? I didn't even know her favourite colour."

Rahm's lips worried over his teeth with unvoiced emotion. I frankly did not give a whore's fart whether he believed me or not. I continued: "You? Your mind? You are after the resurrection of your dead son. And not for the good of us all, not to overcome the gods' crime, not to raise us from the muck that mortality condems us to; you wish it to apologise to your wife and to mend your cracked heart. Well, I think that is a WASTE - a disgraceful WASTE of a spellwright's intellect and a great man's mind!"

A strange expression passed over Rahm's face. For a moment I was fearful he would weep. But that was not quite right. It was sorrow yes, but… why, if I hadn't known better, I would have thought it was sorrow for ME.

What a fool that Rahm Ripa.

"What is here!" he suddenly challenged the emptiness, and wheeled away. He spun about, blue light feebly punching at the black, dust motes wildly bobbing. I saw a single small feather catch, then vanish again. "We were told of this place by Lady Ilganyag, Eldest of the Old! Who heard the First Words spoken and saw the Arbiter Khert take hold!"

No response.

"Try it in Tainish," I suggested. Rahm glowered deeper. Understandble. Dreadful bother to translate and localize verse, you always lose something. One really must learn Continental to enjoy the written works of Gari Fiat at all.

"Look onto the khert," he bade me sharply.

"Ach, very well, but you watch my back while I am vulnerable." I felt the Lady stir in my thoughts but say nothing as I complied. With a steady inhalation, I imagined my breath sweeping the flesh and blood and baggage from my bones; my bones themselves crumbling like ash behind me as I stepped forward through myself, and opened my eyes to the khert-lines.

I stumbled. Rahm caught my arm. A fool, but a friend.

Cutting golden through the blackness, the khert-lines here were thick as hawsers, knotted and twisted around themselves, Aspects and ghosts both sluggishly pulsing through them as though as cold as we were. Phantoms fitfully fluttered in the far, far corners of the room, and still more spiraled against the ceiling far above, skittering blind ghost fingers for some khert-line to follow towards freedom. Feeling Rahm watching me, I dropped my gaze and squinted through the gilded slashes, leading him deeper in.

There. An undefined void against the golden glow of the khert, I saw a Shape. It was a well-known shape to any son of Juste and follower of the Lady. The lines skittered around it, unable to intersect, and the ghosts themselves seemed repulsed. I heard Rahm gasp. A familiar belch of panic gripped my midsection when I tried to return to my fleshly eyes and found them sluggish. Then I steeled myself and with a moment's concerted effort the khert was blinked away, the blackness was returned - burning with no after images, no scintillation of pupils dilating - and I was immediately able to see the blacker black that loomed before us.

Every filament of Silver throughout my body burned hot. The torc at my throat clenched enough to leave me breathless.

In crackling old Tainish, the great Agib asked: "What do these Humans desire."

Oh, what a creature! Imagine a great avian raptor as tall as two men, of ebon plumage and silver razor talons. Now stretch its neck out to thrice the length of its body, give it the beak of a crow, golden human sclera, and irises red as fresh blood.

Rahm gibbered a moment and grabbed his own collar. Then our torcs relaxed, leaving us panting in tandem. Distantly sexy. The bird cocked its head to the side, then level again, then back. It was looking at Rahm's wee lighter. It occurred to me that a creature such as this must not often see such devices. In fact this was a newer design out of the Fluirstadt workshops, using starfly lymph and mirrors, and likely completely revolutionary to such a Mmatont shut-in.

"Give that to Agib," croaked the bird.

Rahm moved to comply and I snatched at his arm. I swear to the dead gods these Crescians do not know how to negotiate.

"We are come for knowledge," I interjected, making the lighter my own. I crushed the shiny bargaining chip to my chest, afraid he'd snatch it. "Lady Ilganyag sent us. She-"

The agib exploded into movement! It drew up on its claws, extended its legs, and shook open its dusty wings! They reached to the ceiling, embers of red burning deep at the roots of the primary quills. "Not the Lady of this Agib!" I think it said. The words were so garbled, the vocabulary so archaic. "Not the Lady of this Agib!"

Inside my head, my own bird was still.

"She wants not a thing from you!" I called, "My compeer and I wish only discourse with a brother scholar, one that I recognise has a savvy appreciation for pymary and pymarics! We have more than this lighter; we have an entire collection with us - in our luggage - of the most modern devices in use today. More than I can say of these savages keeping you prisoner."

"Agib is no prisoner," said the bird. Indeed, I realised suddenly there were no chains on this creature. But what a black, sad room it had been crushed inside. How was this more than a cage of stone, the floor a morass of shit and feathery down-

Oh, shit. SHIT. It had been shitting. Eating. Senet beasts only eat to repair wounds.

"Great injury," the bird lamented, folding its wings. Looking closer, I saw gaps in its primaries, and grievous half-healed fissures in its breast and legs.

"You fought with something," Rahm guessed politely. The monster shifted. All its plumage puffed suddenly, throwing off dust and muck in a choking cloud. It shook, then settled, its down sinking and skirting over its fearsome First Silver talons. Red eyes swung between my face and Rahm's.

"What do these Humans desire?" it asked again, "Humans of Ilganyag. Agib will give you single thing. You will all your precious creations give. Give to Agib all your precious creations. Single thing will Agib give."

Doubt nibbled at me. I knew that these creatures had for all time been the keepers of pymary, for they were the keepers of Old Tainish, the first language of the world. They alone fluently spoke the first words, and had taught them to men when they had thought them ready. If there were secrets, these testy great squawkers would have them. Having had one nesting inside of me since I was a boy, few know them as well.

But this monster did not seem as… put together, as my Lady Ilganyag.

Rahm must have had similar thoughts for he asked: "Who are you, my Lord? How can Humans know what it is Agib… Agib has to give?" It was charming to hear the Crescian try to modulate his Tainish into the old cadence, and use the older words.

"Agib knows," it replied simply.

"Agib knows words," Rahm agreed, "And Agib… knows that words can be spoken to… mirror reality, or to conjure a reality that is not real."

The beast twitched and threw its head, frustrated with the pair of us. I think it had grown accustomed to its solitude. "Humans," it said, "Humans invented the thing that is lying. Ilganyag lines her nest with it! Agib do not lie. Agib love the garden, admire the garden, protect the garden; never is there cause to speak untrue words about the garden!"

"But how can we KNOW?"

The beast puffed its breast and throat again, weaving its long, long neck in a serpent pattern. Rahm extended mollifying hands, his rings flashing in the soft blue light. The sight of them captured the bird's wandering eye. I chuckled. Apparently it loved shinies just as much as my mistress.

Without looking away from the glinting jewellery, in hisses and croaks it recited: "The garden is the garden, paths and stones fixed. Motive and movements determined. The world is in this garden grown and for this garden meant. To change the garden is to KILL the world. Agib alone know how to plant, to prune; the tools are of the Agib and the Agib alone have the tools. To lie is a tool to shape humans; a lie cannot shape the garden. Human tongues never can twist the heart of the garden; only the hearts of humans."

"That was true once," I said, not caring for its arrogance, "But there is a reason Agib have become passing rare, isn't there? Humans have surpassed you and taken your tools-"

The Agib's terrible eyes flared. "AGIB COULD PRUNE YOU NOW, ILGANYAG HUMAN."

Incomprehensible pain opened my insides like a knife. The sun itself burst out of my entrails, up through stomach and esophagus, into my mouth and devoured my eyes, my sinuses, my brain in fire. I have no memory of how I came to be on the ground but then I was, all of reality shrinking away from me - I was in the dark, screaming.

When sensible again, I saw Rahm crouched protectively over me, shielding me, and the wee lighter was in the Agib's beak. All of my friend's rings were gone. Rahm's lips moved but I couldn't hear his words through my groaning, through the echoing pain.

How was I alive? Briefly, I did not wish to be.

Small red hands come from the beast's silver maw. They drew the lighter in, greedily in, clinking against the other jewellery already in its mouth. Then its bill shut, and we were all of us left in the dark. I sobbed like a child in Rahm's arms.

"He did not speak!" I wailed, "He did not speak!"

"What do these humans desire," asked the Agib a final time.

I desired nothing more in that moment than to flee from this room, from this structure, from this island, and away from this monster. It was nothing like Ilganyag. My Lady leads me on a merry dance, but I know the steps. I can sense her moods like a hound turning its snout to the wind. She hates me, but she loves me too. She feels the same about every one of us.

No similar ambivalence from this bird in the black. I knew it cursed us all, and would peck the eyes from a newborn's skull. It had, too. Somehow I knew that it had, countless times. It had been the God of the Soud Vaghal; one of the things on the mountain beneath whose shadow the primitive Tains had cowered and sacrificed.

"I want nothing," I whispered. I'd never said that before. I'd never meant it. I've not meant it since.

Rahm held me tightly as I shuddered, but he was not so defeated. I wonder now what thoughts were behind his eyes as he cast them through the lightless room and towards the unfathomable power of the Agib in the Dark. Did he think of Iori sobbing over their dead boy? The boy himself, dissolving into the khert like sands captured by the surf and pulled into the sea... I wanted to tell him that no answer this creature gave would be answer enough for any of it.

Rahm shifted softly against me and drew his shoulders back to speak. "I wish for us to fly," he said, "Humans cannot shape the garden, but to look down upon it as the Agib does, and behold its splendour, might inspire our tongues towards the same reverence as yours."

A long moment passed. Very faintly I could hear the muffled clinking of metal inside the bird's body, as its tiny hands turned its new treasures over and over. Then:

"A good trade."

---------

A few days later, Rahm and I were back in Tain. Our boat had landed in a little fishing town called Orniers, similar to Lurick and quite as dull. Still, our inn served a fine side of pork and I had ordered a bottle of Omid Red, stewed apples, and a wedge of that soft cheese they make in the west. Rahm swirled his pour in his slim brown fingers, naked now of their pymaric finery but no less elegant.

I'd felt sour and cross since returning. I had left the monster's room to be ill, but Rahm had stayed behind, conferring with the bird and watching it produce formulae of incredible complexity. Now he had a stack of notes and numbers written with impossible precision - they nearly looked pressed with type.

"Did it use its wee mouth hands?" I asked, piling cheese and pork on a slice of good rye, "Did his human moiety ever emerge?"

"I don't know," Rahm answered, expression distant, "It never rose the lights again and I was afraid it would change its mind if I reached for my second lighter. Sitting in the dark for hours, the great monster writing away, my best friend abandoned me for the toilet-- by the Lady, I've only been that afraid for that long a few times. He may have given me new direction for the flying machine, but he may have taken a fucking year off my life."

"Same," I admitted. Rahm narrowed his eyes at me.

"You have many more to spare."

"That is true and it is not my fault. I say if I do not begin taking Ilganyag's suggestions with more caution going forward, it may not matter. Sometimes I cannot tell if she is trying to get me killed, or merely to humble me. Try these apples, there is some rum in them."

My friend moved a few to his plate. He picked at them with little interest. "What does she say about all this?"

"She is amused," I sighed, "But largely silent. I think she and the Agib in the Dark have some history. She wishes me to instruct you to keep its existence a secret."

"I already promised it the same. Senets and their mysteries."

"Aye."

Night was falling. The fishermen had already docked and I could hear the shout and clamour of the lads unloading their catch. We'd stay one more night there, then hire a vliegeng to take us over the mountain in the morning. I thought again about that mountain; the sacred mountain from the top of which, it was said, all pymary had sprung. What had the Tains given the Agib for it? Surely more than light; more than rings.

"I thought you were after the same thing I was," I baited, pouring my friend a second glass.

"So did I."

"Lose your nerve? I say, men accosting senets for information on how to raise their loved ones must be the most tedious trope to them."

Rahm shook his head. "Didn't you listen to it? We can't shape the garden, Bastion. To attempt to… it would kill the world. Death is a part of it. There is no undoing it. But if I finish the flying machine, then… then there was a point to what happened. There was a reason."

He put the wine to his lips. He never said if he cared for the apples.

I'll be honest with you, my dear and patient readers: my friend's answer stuck in my throat like a stone. It sits there still, and galls me when I visit them; when Iori is fingering her gaudy ugly necklace sadly, and Rahm has red eyes after a late night in his workshop. To look for a reason is to look for your own madness. There is no purpose and no reason. We pattern-seeking rodents exhaust ourselves in pursuit of melody within this maelstrom, but there's only noise, and our ringing ears. There is no purpose and no reason, Rahm.

Yet I know he must live each day acting as if there is. That is the thin membrane of sanity we all tread upon so heavily but so carefully, trying not to snap through.

I love my friend Rahm Ripa.

But I will not be put off by the arrogance and tyranny of created things; things that have seen firsthand what the determination of the grown thing can accomplish. Do you remember it tucked away hiding in its own shit? Do you remember? Something brought to great ruin, that Agib in the Dark. Something rent its breast and broke its wings. Was it another senet? Or was it someone wielding our clever pymarics, and our constructed weaponry, and our determination to obtain the tools we need to shape the garden for ourselves?

I don't know for certain, reader; but I ask you to believe with me, sincerely and with your whole heart, that it was one of us.

[cravinganotherworld]

I will love you forever (Legolas x fem!Elf reader)

After the battle of Pelennor fields Legolas searches for his love praying to the Valar for her safety.

WARNINGS: Death of reader, Blood, weapons, Dead bodies Legolas heartbreak :(

Wordcount: 527

Note: This is my first time posting, i promise it'll get better:)!

Silence falls over a once vicious battleground, nothing can be heard except for the light patter of the rain as it falls gently upon the ash and gravel. Amidst the the rubble and piles of bodies from all races, a pair of piercing blue eyes find themselves searching, searching for friends...kin...but most of all hope yet...all life and hope had faded long before the battle began.

As he stalks through the bodies he hears a cry on the wind, a cry he hoped would never fall upon his ears. His head turns in the direction of the cry, his heart collapsing when his eyes lay upon a pile of rocks decorated with both man and orc, from the bottom he spots two small feet protruding from the rubble. As fast as his legs can carry him, Legolas sprints to the rubble, his heart pounding against his chest and tears pricking at his eyes, threatening to spill. His breath hitches in his throat as beside the rubble he spots a glimmer of a jewel...the very Jewel he had braided into (y/n')s hair. With all his energy he begins to pull the pile of dead bodies to pieces, chucking each corpse to the side until finally he sees her. Her beautiful braid now fallen out tangled in the bloodied hand of an orc with tear stains on her once flushed cheeks. A deep cut decorates the left side of her face still dripping with blood and a spear...sticking out of her stomach. Her once green tunic now black drenched in blood, both hers and the enemies. Legolas falls to his knees beside her, placing one arm around the back of her neck and the other beneath her knees attempting to pick her up.

"Legolas...no" (y/n's) weak voice whispers. "please...just hold me" Tears begin to stream down his eyes as he gently places her down, putting his arms around her shoulders and the other around her waist holding her to his chest.

"Don't leave me Mellon Nin(my love) please...let me find a healer" he whispers pressing his forehead to hers.

"help me pass in peace and love Mellon Nin" she struggles "if i am to to die here...then die here i must, but dying in your arms...i know I'm where I'm meant to be" Legolas lifts his head as (y/n's) hand finds its way to his cheek. "I know not where i will go from here...but you legolas...you're meant for so much more" She takes a deep breath and looks into his eyes.

"Grant me one last kiss Mellon nin?" She asks, the light in her eyes fading. With a small, heartbroken smile on his face, Legolas leans forward and presses his tear covered lips onto her dry, blood stained ones. Knowing this was their last kiss he did not want to pull away, only doing so as her breathing became slower.

"Amin mela lle oialëa" (I will love you forever) she whispers as she takes her final breath. Legolas held her as she passed, his tears falling into her hair. He let out a quiet sob before pressing a long, loving kiss to her forehead.

"Amin mela lle oialëa"

End

Let me know what you think! after a couple more if anybody wants any requests doing for any LOTR or ROP characters i will be more than happy to do so!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

LET THEM FEAST

This piece was inspired by this Mickey Mouse cartoon as well as this early episode from Spongebob.

So tell me, do you wanna go?

The cafeteria doors parted, swinging open as any other door would—but to Fellow and Gidel, it was as if the gates to heaven were welcoming them. Humming chatter and the smells of delicious foods churned out from beyond. Deeply inhaling, tasting the aromas in the back of one’s throat, made their bodies light and floaty, as if hunger had made them weightless.

They followed a hoard of uniformed boys with trays, drifting to buffet stations loaded with dishes they could only dream of. Slabs of roast beef dripping with mushroom gravy, racks od lamb, game birds with crisped skin, fish glistening with herb butter, steaming stews with vegetables bobbing in a sea of rich broth, fluffy rice, cakes sliced wide and trifles stacked tall. The paper-thin slice of bread and beans they had for supper had never looked quite so sorry.

Gidel didn’t notice that his mouth was agape and slick with saliva until a cane tucked under his chin and closed it for him. Fellow pulled the young boy close, a hand on his arm as he wildly gestured to the waiting delicacies.

“Take a gander, Giddie! All that food’s free and ours for the taking!!” he chirped. “Ready your fork and knife, we’re going to eat like kings today!”

Arm in arm, the duo dove into the bar, grabbing as much as they reasonably could. Generous scoops of mashed potato, the biggest pieces of meat, plenty of sauce, the largest loaves. Gidel rushed about with an apple crammed into his mouth and Fellow snuck oyster crackers into his breast pocket (as a late-night snack).

While their plates piled higher and higher, the mob students grew more irritable. Elbowing them out of the way, snatching up popular itwms, and taking far more than their share had the tendency to invoke ire. The mobs casted dirty looks at Fellow and Gidel, others raising their voices at the kitchen.

“Oi, where’s the refill of tomato soup? I’ve been waitin’ for forever over here!”

“When’re the dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggies gonna be done…”

“I’m so hungry I could eat a whole horse. What’s the damn hold up?!”

“Be patient, boys!” a ghost chef callee back. He grunted as he hailed a vat of curry off of the stove. “It takes time to prepare the food.”

“They’re ravenous today,” remarked the lead chef. “Wonder what’s going on. We normally don’t have to prepare this much.”

By this time, Fellow (trailed by Gidel) had pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He set down his tray (the tower of food upon it wobbling, threatening to collapse) and waved enthusiastically at the chefs.

“Afternoon, gents! How’s it going? Looks to me like you’re hard at work feeding all these wayward souls.”

“Oh, um. Just fine, thank you.” The head chef blinked. He liked to think that he recognized all of the students and staff that came into his dining room, but he was drawing a total blank with Fellow and Gidel. “Er… Sorry, are you new around here? I don’t think I’ve seen you boys before.”

“Fufu, that’s right. We’re new to these parts.”

“They ain’t even students,” an angry mob student behind him piped up.

The lead chef startled. Worry crumpled his round, marshamallowy face. “Oh dear, not students? The buffet is only open to them and staff.” He glanced at Fellow’s pickings. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to return all that.”

Anger and annoyance shot through the fox beastman. Tch…! Those NRC brats, looking down on me! Why should they get to gorge themselves on this stuff while the rest of us beg for their scraps?!

He reached down and gripped Gidel’s hand, giving the young boy a reassuring squeeze. Gidel offered a sleepy grin back.

Watch this. I’ll turn this entire situation around and have them eating out of the palm of my hand.

He let out a theatrical gasp, then summoned his most charming smile. “My bad, I forgot to introduce myself! You see, I am a health inspector sent by the Department of Magic Education to evaluate your menu! Gidel here’s my trusty assistant.”

The leader of the ghost chefs scratched his head. “Huh? Is that what a health inspector does…?”

“Of course, or cooourse! All a part of the job description, my friend.” Fellow indicated his absurd amount of food. “They’re looking to implement new standards for magic school menus—and where better to look at as a model for reference than THE famous Night Raven College? The education it offers is elite, so the meals it offers must be elite as well! That’s why they’ve sent us to try one of everything, to evaluate the quality of your wares.”

Gidel bobbed his head. (He had little clue what he was actually agreeing with, but he agreed nevertheless.)

“Come ON, you don’t seriously buy this crap, do you?” a mob student groaned. “The old fart’s clearly lying!!”

Other voices joined him, but they all fell upon deaf ears. The head chef’s eyes sparkled, his pasty white cheeks rosy with excitement.

“Oooooh, why didn’t you say so sooner?! W-We will absolutely do everything in our power to accommodate your needs, Sir Health Inspector!” He turned to his kitchen staff. “Isn’t this so exciting, everyone? We’ll be the first group of ghosts to receive a fancy accolade after death!”

A murmur of approval weaved through the kitchen. The dining room, however, erupted into a fresh round of protests.

“You’re joking!!”

“That’s such an obvious lie.”

“How can you believe that bullcrap?!”

Keheheh, never underestimate the power of this Fellow Honest-sama’s silver tongue 🎶 I didn’t even need to use my unique magic to cut to the front of the line. Some people are just born suckers and stay suckers in the afterlife.

He smirked, giving a triumphant twirl of his cane. “Sorry, folks! You snooze, you lose. We get first dibs on everything~”

“Hah?! What’d ya just say to me?” A vein bulged on a Savanaclaw student’s forehead. He was about double Fellow’s width and rippling with muscle. “Like hell you are!”

“The way you talk is pissin’ me off!!” chimed in a Diasomnia student. He drew his baton and aimed it at Fellow. “I oughta shut you up for good!”

The idea was a seed, taking root and festering among his peers. Other students were producing their own magical pens, out of pockets and from inside vests.

Fellow paled, balking but keeping himself between the mobs and Gidel. “H-Hey now, can’t we talk this over? Violence doesn’t solve everything, you know!”

“YES IT DOES,” the mobs retorted—in unison for once. Hungry and angry, a terrible combination.

Gidel whimpered. No sound, but Fellow could sense it in the way the boy retreated into his coat. A free hand found its way to the small of Gidel’s back, keeping him upright.

Don’t let them see you like that. Weak, downtrodden. It’s letting them have the moral victory.

His grin widened. He was a fox looking to sink his teeth into unsuspecting prey.

“Why spend your youth grumpy and causing trouble? You should lighten up, live a little, laugh a little. Here, I’ll show you how. Just follow me! Come on to the Theater!! Life is Fun!!”

Fellow spun his cane, releasing a light shower of sparkles upon the crowd. They floated down, popping like popping on their skin. Eyes glazed over, twisted expressions slackened.

“Now then!!” Fellow, raised his cane like a baton, still spinning as he conducted his herd. He, poised as the ringleader. “Right this way, right this way, gentlemen! Let’s have a lively parade to the courtyard on this fine day!”

“The weather is nice today…”

“Coach said I need to get more exercise in.”

“I’ve been stressed about classes, I need to take this break.”

Marching—one, two, one, two—Fellow led the procession out of the cafeteria. He belted out a tune as he ushered students through the exit.

“Hi-diddle-dee-dee, actor's life for me!”

(Gidel pranced in and out of the line of students, reaching into pockets and retrieving miscellaneous items. Pencils, a keychain, spare change. He stashed them under his hat.)

“A high silk hat and a silver cane, a watch of gold with a diamond chain!”

When the last student was gone, Fellow made a U-turn and rushed back into the cafeteria, slamming the doors behind him. He dropped his smile, letting it shatter like a porcelain teacup and not bothering to salvage the remains.

“Sheesh, they’re finally out of my fur!” Fellow sighed deeply. “Those rotten kids really had to make me work hard for my meal...”

Gidel scrambled over to him, pulling out the various items he had clumsily pilfered. Look what I got! he seemed to say.

Fellow brightened, ruffling the child’s messy brown mop. “Atta boy, Giddie! We sure showed those snooty rich kids what for, eh?”

At that moment, the head chef bursted out of the kitchen juggling a tray of apple strudel. He was followed by several other ghosts, each carrying a new dish.

“Sorry for the wait, here’s the… Huh?” The head chef glanced around the nearly empty cafeteria, his brows knitting. “Where did everybody go?”

“Must’ve gone out for a stroll Fine by me, they’re letting us get right down to business,” Fellow laughed, clapping a hand on Gidel’s shoulder. “C’mon, that’s enough excitement for one day. Let’s dig in!”

[skywardsister]

Stobotnik Fanfic- The Doctor's Retreat

I've been wanting to write more fanfiction since I haven't in a good while, so have a little something based on that deleted scene from Sonic 3 that so many people (including myself) wish was kept in the final version! Sonic the Hedgehog 3 is property of Sega and Paramount, the writing is mine (please don't use my work without my permission- thanks!)

            A bright column of sunlight illuminated the inside of the giant robot once that powered-up hedgehog wrenched its massive head off its hundreds of intricate hinges. Then came the grand fall. Within the confines of his copilot cockpit, Agent Stone braced against the elaborate console in front of him and grasped the controls as hard as his arms would allow. His efforts didn’t suffice to keep him stationary during the sudden drop, which tossed him about and dashed him against the floor upon final impact. Shooting pains etched up and around the man’s rib cage but he barely gave it a thought; Stone forced himself up and forward, maneuvering through the collapsed machine quickly.

            As expected from the ruckus their battle caused, armed G.U.N. members swarmed the wreckage like flies to a carcass. It would require droves of industrial vehicles to completely strip down and ship the robot away, so this visit was presumably just to survey the damage and ensure the threat was neutralized. Locating and stealing a G.U.N. uniform to patrol the premises was exceedingly simple for an agent of Stone’s caliber. Waiting, not so much. The agent joined the ranks of the armored goons itching to break off from the crowd and find who he was really looking for- the doctor. He was on pins and needles and kept his eyes on a constant swivel, not for fear of being discovered, but for any minuscule signs of hope. Ivo was right about technology- if only Stone was a robot himself, he could hunt for heat signatures and shorten the search significantly.

            The agonizingly-long surveillance ended eventually but not soon enough for Stone’s liking. He slipped away when it appeared the other agents were finally satisfied with their work and piled into their trucks before heading out. Sonic and his companions also filed out to recuperate from the fight; they must have thought themselves victorious. Their absence would also lend itself well to the task at hand.

            “Doctor?”

Agent Stone called out the moment he knew was the only one left. The sun was long gone, its light receding rapidly between the trees and casting long black shadows everywhere. Shrapnel embedded in the dirt popped and snapped beneath the soles of his boots as he navigated in near-darkness, sometimes sidling between crunched pieces of debris. The crisp night air stung his nostrils as he moved briskly. He called out again to no response.

Stone was primed to search for as long as it would take to find Ivo; what else was there to do? The agent spotted something by the hulking, dislodged robot head: a leg, peeking out from beneath a sizable sheet of reinforced steel. There was the answer to his prayers. He practically leapt over the fallen mech pieces that sat between them before he found himself at the doctor’s side. Adrenaline thundered through Stone’s veins at the sight at his feet which provided a much-needed boost to heft the scrap metal off of Ivo’s chest. The doctor laid face-up and wouldn’t open his eyes despite stimuli upon inspection, but a quiet wheezing reassured Stone that he was indeed still alive. The agent exhaled and shifted away from the other man’s face.

“Don’t scare me like that, Doctor,” Stone muttered and furrowed his brow as he attempted to lift one of Ivo’s arms. Something shifted and popped. His eyes widened and he gently eased it back down on the ground. Right- a fall so dramatic plus collapsed debris would never leave someone in flawless condition. To think someone would survive it all unscathed would be pure naivety. Sometimes the doctor’s grandiose personality made Agent Stone forget he wasn’t any more invincible than the average person. He leaned over and tucked his hands around and beneath Ivo’s body before hoisting it up and over his shoulders without much trouble. Unsurprisingly, ashy dust caked to Ivo’s coat peppered Stone’s uniform with grey specks almost immediately along with a smoky, metallic smell that wrinkled his nose.

The edge of town was a mile away, where Stone hoped those pesky local cops wouldn’t be snooping around The Mean Bean; if he was presumed dead, they hopefully wouldn’t think to investigate it any further than they already had earlier that afternoon. In the case that none of his tech was confiscated while he was out, he might be able to conduct some x-rays. The trek would be long and arduous in the dark, but the agent would only feel the presence of his companion and not the added weight.

Coming to the cafe, the agent shook his head upon noticing someone had loosely cordoned off the front doors with yellow police tape, and he suspected that officer who tried to arrest him before. Stone gingerly pulled it off with a foot so it fluttered down to the concrete sidewalk. He felt relieved the doctor wasn’t awake while he was unceremoniously dragged inside like a limp sack of coffee beans; why did they have to be pull-doors, especially at a time like this? Ivo ended up carefully sprawled out on the countertop while his loyal sycophant contemplated their options. If anyone found them alive, there would be eyes on them in every state in the country; they would need someplace low-profile to hide until the doctor fully recovered.

“We’ll figure something out,” Stone said, unsure if he said it for Ivo’s sake or if perhaps it was more to reassure himself.

[f14fun]

Where the Asphalt Ends (oc x ob87)

synopsis: in which case morgan, an introverted girl with too many bruises, too many words trapped in the margins of her notebooks, and not enough escape routes, crosses paths with oliver, a reckless boy with oil-stained hands and a grin that makes trouble look like fun.

prose au (14.9K words) ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ profile | masterlist ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

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1986

Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer.

I've gone months upon months, seasons upon seasons, years upon years, from seeing you. Each cycle feels like a lifetime, the weight of time pressing against my chest as though the seasons themselves conspire to remind me of your absence. The sense of longing envelops me like a small ember slowly engulfing a fragile piece of parchment, curling its edges until there's nothing left but the ash of what once was whole.

Faith keeps me alive, keeps me tethered here, waiting for you, even as the years pile on like heavy snowdrifts, threatening to bury me.

Surely, an alternative reality will bloom for us, one where we break free from the endless cycle of yearning. One day, past the colors that the seasons paint, fiery autumn golds, icy winter whites, tender spring greens, and sun-soaked summer yellows, my eyes will meet yours again, and in that moment, the world will thaw. Time will stop, the seasons will collapse, and everything I’ve waited for will finally take root in—

"Morgan. Morgan Chapman! Morgan Chapman, answer me this instant!"

The sinister click-clack of our teacher's heels—or rather the devil reincarnated (but also known as Mrs. Tillet)— echoed across the room, each step a sharp punctuation against the dull hum of the overhead fluorescent lights.

Unblinking, they watched the scene fold as well. Like me, we were all terrified.

The sound sliced through the air, growing louder, more deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. It was the kind of sound that made your spine stiffen and your stomach churn, as if you could feel the judgment creeping closer with every step.

She stood at the edge of my desk now, the shadow of her towering figure casting a foreboding veil over my scattered notebook pages. Her fingers, pale and skeletal, drummed against the edge of the desk in a rhythm that matched the tap of her heels moments before. Her sharp gaze bore into me, eyes like twin shards of ice, piercing through my feeble attempts to avoid her scrutiny.

"Morgan Chapman," she repeated, her voice a venomous drawl that oozed with the kind of authority only a seasoned teacher could wield. "I will not tolerate silence. Speak. What the bloody hell are you doing writing nonsensical things in my class?"

I stared at her, eyes unblinking.

I stared at her, eyes unblinking, my throat constricted as though an invisible frost had wrapped itself around my neck, freezing my words before they could surface.

"Are you mute? Are you dumb, girl?" Her sharp words sliced through the air, a biting wind that left me raw. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as every pair of eyes in the class zeroed in on me. I could feel their gazes, heavy and smothering, like the oppressive heat of summer when the sun hangs too close to the earth.

Before I could muster even a semblance of a response, she snatched the paper from my desk with a swift, deliberate motion. The edges of the sheet fluttered for a brief second, a bird caught mid-flight, before she held it aloft. My blood ran cold.

"Ah, let’s see what we have here, shall we?" Her lips curled into a cruel smile as her eyes darted over the page. "What sort of drivel has Miss Little Morgan Chapman been conjuring in her little daydreams this time?"

She cleared her throat dramatically, the sound reverberating like the last crackle of brittle autumn leaves before winter’s frost claims them. Then, with exaggerated emphasis, she began to read aloud, her tongue slicing across the words on the paper like Excalibur.

"'Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer. I've gone for months after months, seasons after seasons, years after years, from seeing you. The sense of longing envelops me like a small ember engulfing a piece of parchment...'" Her voice dripped with mockery, stretching each word until it felt foreign and unrecognizable.

The room erupted into muffled giggles, the cruel kind that stung like icy sleet against bare skin. My cheeks burned, a furious mix of humiliation and helplessness, as though summer’s scorching heat had collided with winter’s relentless chill.

She slammed the paper down on her desk with theatrical disdain, her expression one of exaggerated disappointment. "And this," she sneered, "is what you choose to waste your time on in my classroom? Silly little romance novels? Yearning and longing and all that nonsense? Writing this sort of rubbish isn’t going to get you anywhere, girl."

She turned her gaze to the class, addressing them all now, though her eyes never left me. "Ladies, take note: this is precisely what happens when you let your minds wander to frivolous pursuits instead of focusing on what matters. A woman’s place is to think practically, not to indulge in flights of fancy."

Her hand darted out suddenly, clutching the paper again. With a sharp, deliberate motion, she tore it cleanly in half, the sound of ripping paper as jagged and violent as a winter gale. Another tear followed, and then another, until the pieces fell like broken petals onto the desk.

I bit my tongue hard enough to taste copper, willing myself not to cry, but the sting behind my eyes was relentless. My chest felt tight, the humiliation a growing knot that made it hard to breathe. My fingers clenched around the pen in my hand, and I realized with a jolt that it was shaking, trembling against the weight of everything I was holding in.

A single tear betrayed me, sliding down my cheek before I could stop it. It fell silently, splashing onto the remnants of my torn paper, the ink beginning to bleed where the water touched it. I stared at the stain, a dark bloom spreading across the parchment, as though it were absorbing all the emotions I couldn’t let out.

My pen faltered, the tip hovering just above the desk, leaving faint, uneven lines where it quivered. I clenched my jaw, desperate to keep my composure, but every suppressed sob threatened to break free, rising in my throat like the first gust of wind before a storm.

Mrs. Tillet glanced at me briefly, her expression impassive, as though my silent struggle was nothing more than an afterthought. The room felt colder, the collective stares of my classmates piercing through me like icicles. Some were amused, others awkwardly looked away, but none of it mattered. I was utterly, completely exposed.

With an exasperated sigh that seemed to echo louder than the bell ever could, Mrs. Tillet straightened, smoothing the front of her charcoal skirt. Her heels clicked against the floor with a precision that made the sound even more menacing as she turned and strode to her desk. For a fleeting moment, I thought it was over—that she might let me gather what little dignity I had left and slip away into the crowd. But then I heard it. The unmistakable scrape of the ruler being pulled from the drawer.

The tension in the room thickened, sharp as the icy wind of winter. I froze, my breath hitching as she held the ruler in her hand, its polished wood gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. It seemed absurdly long and heavier than I remembered, its edges worn smooth from years of discipline. She turned it in her hand, her movements slow and deliberate, like an executioner savoring the moment before delivering the blow.

"Three times this week, Miss Chapman," she said, her tone deceptively calm but undercut with a razor’s edge. She tapped the ruler against her palm, the sound crisp and deliberate, like the tick of a clock counting down. "Three times you've brought this nonsense into my classroom, wasting not just your own time, but mine. Do you think I’m here to entertain your fantasies?"

She approached, ruler in hand, and the whole room seemed to hold its breath. "Hands out," she barked, her voice cracking through the silence like the first thunder of an impending storm. I hesitated, the trembling pen still clutched in my fingers. "Now, Morgan."

I slowly extended my hand, fingers splayed and trembling, as though reaching out to grasp something that would never come. The first strike landed with a sharp sting that rippled through my skin, the sound cracking through the air like a brittle branch snapping in autumn. I flinched, but kept my hand steady. The second blow followed, harsher than the first, leaving a dull, throbbing ache in its wake. The third strike hit with the finality of winter’s frost, biting deep and unforgiving.

My breath came in shallow bursts, but I refused to cry again. I clenched my jaw so tightly it ached, keeping my head down as I pulled my hand back, fingers curling instinctively into a fist. Mrs. Tillet was not finished.

She reached for the pen still trembling in my other hand. "This," she said, snatching it with the same disdain she had for my torn paper, "is the very tool of your absurdity. A pen! You treat it like a wand, as though it will summon something meaningful out of the air."

Before I could react, she gripped it tightly in both hands and, with a startling crack, snapped it in half. Ink splattered onto her fingers and the desk, the bright blue pooling like fresh rain against the drab wood. My mouth fell open in silent shock. It seemed impossible, like watching someone twist the seasons out of order, and yet here it was—my pen, broken, its remains scattered before me like shards of glass.

"Let this be a lesson," she said coldly, dropping the pieces onto my desk as though they were trash. "Romantic nonsense won’t get you anywhere in life, Morgan. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be."

I can't believe this fucking tramp is married.

The screeching ring of the school bell pierced through the suffocating tension, its sharpness a cruel imitation of relief. Like the first sip of water after a drought, it should have been comforting—but it wasn’t. It only marked the end of one torment and the beginning of another. I had never been so glad to hear that disgusting sound, yet it felt hollow, as though it rang only to mock me.

The shuffle of feet and scrape of chairs filled the room as my classmates gathered their things, their movements sluggish with boredom but fueled by the thrill of escape. Whispers trailed behind them like cigarette smoke in the cold, clinging to the stale classroom air.

"She’s mental, isn’t she? It's bloody cuckoo up there." "Thinks she’s some kind of poet or something." "Bet she fancies herself the next Barbara Cartland."

The giggles that followed were sharp and biting.

I kept my head down, willing the stinging in my eyes to stop. My hand twitched toward the scattered remains of my paper, but I hesitated. Each torn piece was an extension of myself, exposed and humiliated for everyone to see.

As the last of the girls filed out, I dropped to my knees, frantically gathering the scraps of paper from the floor. My fingers worked quickly, trembling as they clutched at the shredded pieces. The inked words bled together, blurred by the damp stain of my earlier tears. My breath hitched as I reached for a fragment near the desk leg, only to feel a sharp pain shoot through my hand.

I looked up, startled, to see the scuffed sole of a black leather Mary Jane pressing down on my fingers. Fuck, it hurt.

"Oops," the girl said with mock sweetness, her face twisted into a smirk. It was Harriet Price, one of Mrs. Tillet’s favorites, the kind of girl who always wore her skirt a perfect inch below the knee and still managed to seem untouchably rebellious.

Her blonde curls bounced as she leaned down slightly, her voice dripping with venom. "Didn’t see you there, Morgan. Funny how you’re always crawling around like a little mouse."

Her friends snickered, standing in a semi-circle just far enough away to pretend they weren’t involved. Harriet stepped off my hand, and I recoiled, cradling it as the dull ache spread through my knuckles.

"Come on, Harriet," one of them said, feigning innocence. "You don’t want to get ink on your shoes."

They turned and left, their laughter trailing behind them, echoing down the corridor like a cruel taunt. I remained there for a moment, kneeling on the cold linoleum floor, my chest tightening with each shallow breath.

I forced myself to stand, clutching the crumpled pieces of my paper like a lifeline. My vision blurred again, but I blinked rapidly, refusing to let more tears fall. I had to get out of there.

The walk to the exit felt endless, the corridors eerily quiet now that the chatter of students had moved outside. The school smelled faintly of damp wool, chalk dust, and leftover custard from lunch—a scent that normally went unnoticed but now clung to me, suffocating. The dull posters on the walls—warnings about the dangers of truancy, the importance of abstinence, or reminders to study hard for O-levels—blurred as I passed, their bright colors mocking in their cheerfulness.

Hah. I had no problem with abstinence. No man, nonetheless even a boy, wanted to come near me. I was boy repellent. The only boys that got near me were my fictional ones that I wrote. The ones who said the perfect things at the perfect times, who leaned against doorframes with a devil-may-care grin, who held your hand as if the world might end if they didn’t. Boys who existed solely in the confines of my ink-stained notebooks, far removed from the awkward silences and sidelong glances of real life.

I allowed myself a bitter smirk at the thought, the corners of my mouth curling in a way that felt foreign and fleeting. Even if the world outside my head seemed intent on tearing me apart, at least I had that. My worlds. My words. They couldn’t take that from me—not completely.

But the thought soured as quickly as it came. Mrs. Tillet’s voice echoed in my mind, sharp and dismissive: “Romantic nonsense won’t get you anywhere, Morgan.” The words felt like grit beneath my nails, impossible to scrub clean. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was delusional, clinging to my daydreams like a child clutching a threadbare teddy.

Delusion got me fucking somewhere for all it counts, I'm bloody telling you I—

"OW!" My muttered ramblings were cut short as something—a force, a blur of motion—collided with me. The next moment, I was sprawled on the cold, uneven pavement of Clemsford’s High Street, my bag tipped over, its contents scattered across the ground like debris after a storm. A textbook flopped open, a pen rolled into the gutter, and my torn papers fluttered like fallen leaves.

"Shit! Are you alright?" a voice called out, jolting me from the daze.

I blinked up, startled, to see a boy hopping off a clunky red bike that was now lying on its side, its wheels spinning lazily. He pulled off his Walkman headphones—silver and bulky, with a tape that was still playing faintly—and crouched down, his face suddenly inches from mine.

It was the kind of face you’d expect to see on a cassette tape cover, all cheeky charm and easy confidence. His dark hair was slightly tousled, curling at the edges in a way that seemed both deliberate and careless, as if he’d just stepped off a football pitch or out of a record store. His uneven smile was what caught my attention most: crooked at one corner, as though it couldn’t decide between cheeky confidence and genuine warmth. And then there were his eyes—soft yet sharp, holding the kind of easy light that could shift between mischief and sincerity in an instant. I’d never seen him before, and that was saying something in a town as small as Clemsford.

"Bloody hell," I muttered, scrambling to sit up, my cheeks already burning.

"I didn’t see you! I’m so sorry," he said quickly, brushing a hand through his hair. His accent was softer, less clipped than the posh girls at school. "Are you okay? That was a bit of a nasty tumble."

I glanced down at my scraped palms and knees, wincing as I spotted a tear in my tights. "Yeah, I’m fine," I mumbled, even though my pride felt more bruised than my body.

He crouched lower, scooping up a few of my things—a battered notebook, my pencil case, and the cassette I’d forgotten I’d even packed that morning. "Here," he said, holding them out. His fingers brushed mine as I took them, and I nearly dropped the lot.

"Thanks," I muttered, looking anywhere but at his face.

"You’re sure you’re alright?" He tilted his head, his grin softening. "I didn’t mean to run you over. Thought I could zip past before the light changed, but..." He motioned vaguely to his bike, as if that explained his lack of control.

"It’s fine," I said, hurriedly gathering the rest of my things. My hands were still shaking, and I cursed myself for it. Of all the people in the world, why did the first boy to talk to me outside of school have to look like he belonged in a Duran Duran video?

"Good thing I didn’t break anything—your bones, I mean," he added, laughing.

I forced a weak laugh in return, still hyper-aware of the way his eyes lingered on me.

"Where were you off to, anyway?" he asked, leaning back on his heels. "You looked miles away. Daydreaming about something good, I hope?"

I shook my head quickly, clutching my things like a lifeline. "No, just… school stuff."

He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he extended a hand to help me up, his fingers warm against my cold ones.

"I'm Oliver, by the way," He said, squeezing my hand . A mutual sign of respect. "Oliver Bearman."

The name suited him—solid, grounded, and somehow larger than life, as though it belonged to someone who could navigate the world with ease while the rest of us stumbled over loose paving stones. It rolled off his tongue with the kind of effortless confidence that made me painfully aware of my own awkwardness.

"Bearman," I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper, tasting the name like it might explain the way my pulse quickened.

"Hah! Yeah, like a bear and a man, but I think of my self less scary than those two things combined," He chucked.

"Scary," I quietly echoed, more to myself than to him, my eyes stubbornly focused on the ground instead of his face.

"Are you just going to repeat everything I say? That's no way to make conversation," he teased, his voice laced with amusement.

I glanced up for the briefest moment, catching the playful spark in his blue eyes before my gaze darted away again. My cheeks burned as I scrambled for a response, but the words caught somewhere in my throat. "I—I wasn’t…" I stammered, my voice trailing off as I heard him laugh softly again.

"You know," he said, leaning slightly closer, "it’s alright to talk back. I don’t bite. Well, not unless I’m really hungry."

His grin widened, and I felt my heart stutter in response. He was teasing me, sure, but there was no malice in it—just an easy charm that made me feel even more self-conscious. My mind raced, but all I could think about was how absurd this moment felt, standing here with my scraped knees and torn papers, talking to a boy like him.

"Sorry," I finally mumbled, clutching my books tighter to my chest. "I’m not great at… talking."

"No kidding," he said, but his tone was light, his expression softening. "Lucky for you, I’m pretty good at it. Guess that balances us out, yeah?"

I noded, but I couldn't get a sound to come out. My throat tightened. This was almost a worse case scenario for me.

Nearly doomsday, even.

Talking with new people was quite frankly, new. And weird. And sometimes (most of the time) unpleasant. But strangely, this one was, how can I put this, okay…

Oliver crouched beside me, gathering up a forgotten possession that was still resting on the ground. He picked it up in one sweepingly smooth motion. His fingers brushed against the edge of my notebook, and he paused, tilting his head as he glanced down at it.

"Well, well," he mused, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. "Morgan Chapman."

My breath caught in my throat.

I hadn’t even realized my notebook had fallen out—hadn’t noticed it lying there, open, with my messy scrawl bleeding across the pages. But Oliver had. And now he was holding it, his fingers casually skimming the edge as if he were about to flip it open.

My stomach plummeted.

Oh no. No, no, no.

That wasn’t just any notebook—it was the notebook. The one filled with half-finished stories, private musings, and embarrassingly dramatic confessions to fictional men who didn’t even exist. The one that, if opened, would expose every corner of my ridiculous, yearning imagination.

I swear the universe was playing one large comical joke on me, and I, Morgan Chapman, just fell right into the tip of Lord's karma sword.

Panic surged through me, and before I could think, before I could even register what I was doing, I lunged.

"Wait—!"

The force of my movement knocked me forward, my knee scraping against the pavement as I collided into Oliver’s chest. He let out a surprised oof as I practically threw myself at him, one arm instinctively wrapping around my waist to steady me as I crashed into him.

For a second, neither of us moved.

His warmth seeped through his jacket, his hand firm against my lower back, steadying me as if I hadn’t just flung myself at him like an unhinged lunatic. I could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the faint scent of something vaguely cinamonny and warm clinging to his hoodie.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

My face burned, heat crawling up my neck, scorching my ears. I had just thrown myself at a boy. A boy I didn’t know. A boy who now had my notebook.

Oliver blinked down at me, his expression somewhere between amusement and curiosity. "Well," he said, after a beat, his voice light and teasing, "that was dramatic."

I made a strangled noise that barely qualified as human.

His lips quirked up at the corner. "Didn’t realize my touching your notebook was such a crime. Do you write about the MI6 in here or something?"

I scrambled, half-tripping over my own feet as I grabbed for the notebook, but he held it just out of reach, his grip infuriatingly firm.

Yes, how dare he use his height advantage to get an edge over me?!

"Oliver," I hissed, my fingers closing around the edge as I tugged desperately.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by my frantic reaction. "Alright, alright, keep your secrets," he said, finally letting go.

I snatched it back, clutching it to my chest like it was a lifeline, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Oliver rocked back on his heels, watching me with a knowing smirk. "Must be some very interesting stories in there," he mused, tilting his head.

I stiffened. "It’s nothing," I blurted, too quickly.

He grinned, eyes gleaming. "Right. And you just threw yourself at me because you don’t care about me reading it?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it. There was no winning this.

Oliver squinted at me, his expression full of exaggerated contemplation. "Yeah, you totally either write about some super top-secret MI6 government conspiracy that you don't want anyone to know about…" He stroked his chin dramatically, then his entire demeanor shifted. His smirk widened into something almost devious, his blue eyes glinting with unrestrained mischief.

"Or," he dragged out, his voice dropping just a fraction, "you write about good 'ole sex."

My brain short-circuited.

I went completely still, the words hanging in the air like an anvil poised to drop on my head.

And then—heat. A wave of it, roaring up my neck, flooding my face in an instant. My skin burned so fiercely I thought I might spontaneously combust right there on the pavement.

Oliver saw it. Of course he saw it. His smirk deepened, like a cat who had just cornered a very, very flustered mouse.

"Oh," he said slowly, dragging out the syllable like he had just unearthed the world’s greatest treasure. "So that’s what it is."

"No!" I practically squeaked, gripping my notebook even tighter, as if I could somehow strangle the entire conversation to death. "It’s not—I don’t—oh my God."

Oliver full-on laughed, tilting his head back in delight. "Morgan Chapman, you are so red right now."

"Shut up!" I groaned, covering my face with one hand while clutching my cursed notebook with the other.

I needed to burn this cursed thing in a firepit, throw it in a deep lake with all sorts of brain eating amobeas or bacteria, or blow torch it. This notebook was bringing me all sorts of shit luck.

"Hey, no shame in it," he continued, clearly enjoying my agony. "You’re, what? Sixteen? Seventeen? I’d be more surprised if you weren’t writing steamy little romance novels in your free time."

I whipped my head up to glare at him, my humiliation morphing into full-blown outrage. "I do not write romance novels!"

Oliver shrugged, completely unfazed. "Uh-huh. And I suppose your face is is just a coincidence? It totally is telling a different story than what you allegedly are saying…"

I groaned, my fingers tightening around the edges of my cursed notebook like I could somehow crush it into oblivion. "My face is not," I lied, feeling the heat still crawling up my face.

He just smirked. "Sure you’re not."

I exhaled sharply, willing myself to focus on anything else, because if I let him run with this conversation any longer, I might actually keel over from sheer mortification. "I’m eighteen, by the way," I blurted out, as if that was at all relevant.

Oliver raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," I huffed. "I just look young."

He made a thoughtful humming noise, tilting his head. "Right. And I’m nineteen."

I squinted at him, studying his face like I could somehow see if he was lying. "Are you?"

His smirk deepened. "What do you think, Chapman?"

I frowned. "I think you’re full of shit."

Oliver let out a loud, obnoxious laugh, shaking his head. "God, you’re fun."

I bristled. "I’m not fun, I’m—"

"—thoroughly embarrassed that I found your secret romance novel?"

"I-," sputtered. He got me.

Oliver’s smirk widened, eyes practically glowing with amusement. "I-?" he echoed, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. "What’s that, Chapman? You were saying something?"

I clamped my mouth shut, my entire body locking up. My brain was screaming at me to say something—anything that would wipe that smug look off his face—but my mouth betrayed me, working uselessly around half-formed words that refused to come out.

Oliver chuckled, shaking his head. "Wow. Speechless. That’s a first."

I hated that he was enjoying this. I hated that he was right. And I really hated that my face was still burning hot, my hands nervously gripping the edges of my cursed notebook like it might somehow anchor me back to reality.

"I-It’s not—" I tried again, but my voice wobbled like a newborn fawn, and I wanted to die.

"It’s not…?" Oliver prompted, leaning ever so slightly forward, his grin all-too-knowing.

I swallowed thickly. "It’s not—" I squeaked again. Oh God. Oh my God.

His grin stretched even wider, and I immediately looked away, staring very intently at the pavement. Anywhere but at him.

"Chapman," he drawled, his voice teasing, playful. "You do realize that blushing this much is basically an admission of guilt, right?"

I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut for half a second. "I am not—"

"Blushing?" He finished for me, sounding obnoxiously delighted.

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to do something before he actually made me explode from sheer mortification. Without thinking, I hugged my notebook even tighter to my chest and spun on my heel, determined to walk away from this absolute disaster of a conversation.

But before I could take more than three steps—

"Oh, come on," Oliver called after me, his voice still bubbling with laughter. "Now you’re just running away!"

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. My legs were moving on their own, carrying me as far from him as possible before my dignity suffered any more casualties.

"Not running away!" I choked out, mortified beyond belief.

"Uh-huh," he called back. "So if I read one of those stories of yours, would it be purely academic? Not even a little bit swoony?"

I whimpered. I actually whimpered.

"You are the worst person I have ever met!" I shouted over my shoulder, my voice much too high-pitched to be taken seriously.

"Surely not!" his voice called out in the distance as I rounded a corner. Speedwalking up a hill—which proved to be more difficult than normal as I was already quite winded from that previous spat— I couldn't see him or hear him anymore.

Per usual, I was running away from my problems, and running towards my bedroom at home where I could write my silly little stories and disappear from my reality.

Three left turns, one long downhill stroll, and two rights later, I had arrived at home.

The small, weathered house sat tucked between two others, its faded brick exterior worn down by time and neglect. The white paint along the window frames was chipped, curling at the edges like dried petals, and the front steps creaked under even the lightest step, betraying any late-night attempts to sneak in unnoticed. The front door stuck when the weather was humid, and even in the cold, it needed a good shove to open.

The tiny front yard was more weeds than grass, stubborn green pushing through cracks in the pavement. Our mailbox leaned slightly to the right, rust creeping up its edges. I had long since given up trying to fix it. The roof slanted awkwardly, the shingles old and cracked, some missing altogether, exposing bits of the underlayer like a wound half-covered by a makeshift bandage.

But this was home.

I had never known anything else.

Inside, the air was familiar—stale but tinged with the faintest scent of detergent and whatever had been last cooked in the kitchen. The walls were an odd mix of pale yellow and peeling wallpaper, remnants of an attempted home improvement project that had never quite been finished. The floor creaked in specific spots, and I knew exactly where to step to avoid making too much noise.

The living room was cluttered but lived-in. A coffee table with one wobbly leg sat in front of an old, sagging couch, the cushions sunken from years of use. A pile of newspapers and unopened bills and letters gathered at the far end, half-forgotten and half-paid. The TV, an old bulky thing with a remote that barely worked, sat on a stand that had once been a proper bookshelf before the bottom shelf gave out under the weight of too many library discards. A single lamp flickered faintly in the corner, its shade slightly askew.

I looked down at my shoes, as I stood quietly in the doorway.

No shoes by the door except mine. No coat slung over the chair.

Mum wasn’t home.

Not that she ever really was.

I exhaled, pressing my back against the door for a moment, my fingers still curled tightly around my cursed notebook. The heat in my face had cooled, but my nerves still crackled from the encounter. If I let my mind wander, I could still hear his voice—teasing, smug, all too knowing.

I shoved the thought aside and made my way up the narrow staircase, two steps at a time. My bedroom door creaked as I nudged it open, the familiarity of my small, slightly cluttered sanctuary swallowing me whole.

This was where I escaped.

My desk was a mess of scattered notebooks, a few uncapped pens bleeding ink into their pages. Books I had yet to finish reading were stacked haphazardly on my nightstand, and the tiny corkboard above my bed was covered in pinned-up scraps of writing—half-finished sentences, phrases that had once felt important but now sat there, waiting.

I threw my bag onto my bed, dragging a hand down my face. God. That whole interaction was going to haunt me for weeks. Months. Possibly years.

Before I could dwell on it further, the front door downstairs slammed open.

Then came the voice.

"MORGANNNN!"

I tensed instinctively. Here we go. I was going to have to pretend to give a shit at my job as a therapist where no one was paying me to listen.

A few seconds later, I heard the unmistakable stomp of Janine’s shoes as she barreled into the house like a one-girl hurricane.

The whining began before I could even brace myself.

"Oh my God, you would not believe the day I just had," she announced, her voice reaching the very top of its dramatics.

I barely had time to turn around before she threw herself onto my bed with all the grace of a collapsing sandbag.

I blinked. "Hi, Janine. Nice to see you too."

She ignored me, sprawled out like she’d just finished running a marathon. Her school uniform was wrinkled beyond recognition, her backpack half-zipped, and her dark hair a little frizzier than usual—probably from whatever dramatics she had put herself through today.

"Miss Greene is actually evil," she declared, rolling onto her stomach. "She made us redo the entire maths worksheet just because, apparently, half the class did it wrong. And, of course, I had already thrown mine away, so I had to dig through the trash like an animal to find it!"

I tried to suppress my smile. "That sounds... traumatic."

"It was traumatic," she huffed, turning to glare at me. Then, just as suddenly, her expression shifted into something sharper, something vaguely mean. Her eyes scanned me up and down, her nose scrunching in distaste.

"Wow," she said bluntly. "You look like shit."

I inhaled slowly, schooling my expression into something neutral. I was used to this. Janine had a gift for making casual cruelty sound effortless, as if it was just another part of normal conversation.

"Thanks," I muttered, sitting down at my desk, pretending to be deeply interested in an uncapped pen.

"No, seriously," she continued, propping herself up on her elbows. "What happened to you? You look like you just lost a fight. Did you finally get bullied?"

I clenched my jaw, tapping my fingers against the desk. "No, Janine. I did not get bullied."

"Could’ve fooled me," she muttered, flopping back onto the pillows.

I exhaled through my nose. Don’t let it get to you. She didn’t mean it. Mostly.

Janine was like this. Always had been. There were times when her teasing was just that—harmless, annoying, the kind of back-and-forth that siblings had. But then there were other times, like now, when she wasn’t just being cheeky. She meant it, even if she pretended not to. Maybe she was just a normal thirteen year old girl who had a knack for being quite the bitch.

I didn’t bother arguing. It never helped.

Instead, I changed the subject. "Did you eat yet?"

She huffed dramatically, rolling onto her back again. "No. And Mom’s obviously not home, again."

A small pang hit my chest. Not unexpected, but still.

"She left some food in the fridge," I offered. "Probably leftovers."

Janine groaned. "I swear, we’re like stray dogs at this point. Just fending for ourselves, rummaging through whatever scraps she leaves behind."

My stomach twisted uncomfortably.

She said it like a joke. Like a complaint.

But I knew she felt it.

I did too.

Still, I forced a small smile, standing up from my desk. "Alright, stray dog. I’ll heat something up."

She made a sound of reluctant approval, flopping dramatically onto my bed once more.

As I walked downstairs, the house felt heavier. Quieter. The same kind of quiet it always was.

Janine trailed behind me down the stairs, her footsteps lighter than mine, but still deliberately obnoxious. She fiddled with her Walkman, adjusting the chunky headphones over her ears, pressing buttons as if she were about to unearth some hidden sonic masterpiece. The soft click of the cassette rolling into place filled the silence between us, the quiet hum of the tape player spinning in the background.

I made my way into the kitchen, not even needing to check the fridge before I resigned myself to my fate. There was no “leftovers” in the way people meant it—only the usual sad collection of things that barely passed as a meal. I grabbed the bread, flipping through the slices until I found two that weren’t slightly stiff at the edges, then reached for the nearly-expired mayo, a sad-looking pack of ham, and a head of lettuce that looked like it had survived some sort of traumatic event.

The Sad Sandwich™ was coming together beautifully.

As I spread the mayo across the bread, trying to ignore the way it smelled just a little off, I glanced at Janine, who was still wrapped up in her own world, occasionally nodding along to whatever she was listening to.

"What’s playing?" I asked, if only to break the silence.

She barely acknowledged me, eyes flicking up for the briefest second before returning to the invisible spot she was staring at on the table. "ABBA. Andante, Andante."

I paused for a second, then smirked. "What, feeling romantic?"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I like the melody, duh." She was acting like it was I, who was the fool… What irony have I stumbled upon.

I snorted, adding the world’s saddest piece of lettuce onto her sandwich, the edges limp, its vibrancy long since faded. "You know, it’s kind of funny," I mused, pressing the slices of bread together. "A song about taking things slow, savoring every moment. But time never really slows down, does it? You just get older, and suddenly, you’re looking back, wondering when it all started moving so fast."

Janine pulled off one side of her headphones, blinking at me like I had just sprouted a second head. "What?"

I shrugged, placing her sandwich on the table in front of her. "Andante, andante. It means 'slowly, gently.' But life doesn’t wait for us, does it?" I exhaled, wiping the remnants of mayo off my fingers. "You blink, and everything changes. You barely get a chance to catch up before it’s all different again."

Janine squinted at me, unimpressed. "Shut up," she said, ripping her sandwich in half like it had personally wronged her. "Can’t you just let me listen to ABBA in peace without making it all philosophical?"

I smirked, grabbing my own pathetic excuse for a sandwich. "Nope."

Janine groaned again, throwing herself against the back of the chair like I had just personally exhausted her entire will to live. "You’re so annoying," she mumbled, taking an aggressive bite of her sandwich. "Like, actually, why are you like this?"

I shrugged, taking a significantly less enthusiastic bite of my own sad sandwich. "I have no idea. Must be a genetic thing. Guess that means you’re doomed too."

Janine made a dramatic gagging sound. "Ew. Don’t lump me in with your weird existential crisis nonsense." She waved a hand vaguely in my direction. "You’re, like, so much worse than normal today."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what’s my normal level of 'worse'?"

She smirked, licking a stray glob of mayo off her thumb. "Usually, it’s more like mildly irritating older sister levels. Today, though? You’ve graduated to full-on poet with a drinking problem vibes."

I rolled my eyes. "Good to know I’m evolving."

Janine snorted, tossing her crust onto the plate like it had personally offended her. "Speaking of drinking," she said, stretching her arms overhead in an exaggerated yawn, "can I have a beer?"

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw the back of my skull. "No."

She sighed dramatically, slumping even further into her chair. "You always say no."

"Because you always ask," I shot back, grabbing our plates and stacking them haphazardly.

Janine shrugged, completely unbothered. "One day, you’ll crack."

"Unlikely," I muttered, heading toward the sink.

The thing was, she wasn’t really serious. Not really. It had started as a joke, some dumb throwaway comment she made a few months ago when she saw me grabbing a bottle from the fridge—*"Gimme one"—*and I had shut it down immediately, obviously. But since then, it had become some kind of weekly bit, an ongoing test of patience where she’d casually drop it into conversation just to see if I’d finally get tired and say fine, here, drink yourself into oblivion, you little menace.

I hadn’t cracked yet.

Janine, of course, took this as an invitation to try harder.

"Whatever," she drawled, swinging her legs over the side of the chair. "I’ll just find my own."

I froze for half a second, turning just in time to watch her actually start rummaging through the cabinets.

I narrowed my eyes. "Janine."

She ignored me.

"Janine, no."

"Janine, yes," she sang, standing on her tiptoes to dig through one of the higher shelves.

I set the plates down a little too hard in the sink. "There’s nothing in there."

She turned her head just enough to smirk at me. "Oh? Then you won’t mind if I check."

I let out a slow, measured breath. "You’re thirteen."

"And yet," she grunted, stretching onto the tips of her toes, "I’m the only one with any sense of fun in this household."

"You," I said flatly, "*have no idea what to do with beer."

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "You don’t even know what to do with beer."

I opened my mouth, then shut it.

She wasn’t wrong.

Before I could tell her to cut it out, her fingers closed around something. Her entire face lit up as she yanked her arm back, turning on her heel with a flourish.

"A-ha!"

And there it was.

A single, lukewarm can of beer.

Where had she even found that?

Janine looked entirely too pleased with herself, holding the can aloft like she had just unearthed some kind of mythical treasure.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "Are you kidding me?"

She grinned. "I don’t kid about important things, Morgan."

I snatched it out of her hands before she could so much as think about cracking it open.

"Hey!" she yelped, jumping up to grab it back. "What the hell!"

"You are thirteen," I repeated, placing the can firmly on the counter, far out of her reach.

She scowled, crossing her arms. "Barely."

I shot her a look. "That is not how that works."

Janine stared at me, then at the can. Then back at me. Then at the can again.

And before I could even process what was about to happen—

She lunged.

"Janine,—"

Too late.

With the speed and agility of a raccoon stealing a piece of bread, she snatched the can off the counter, popped the tab, and chugged.

Not a sip. Not a taste. A full-blown, unhinged, humongous swig, like she was some weathered sailor downing grog after a long voyage.

I stood there, utterly paralyzed, watching as my thirteen-year-old sister took an entire gulp of lukewarm beer like it was the best decision she had ever made.

She smacked her lips, lowering the can with the dramatic flair of someone who absolutely thought they were about to look cool.

And then.

It hit.

Janine’s entire body convulsed.

She gagged, her face contorting like she’d just swallowed a mouthful of expired lemonade and battery acid at the same time.

Janine staggered back like she had just been struck down by divine punishment, her arms flailing dramatically. "Oh my God, the holy spirit!" she gasped, as if expecting Gabriel himself to descend from the heavens and cleanse her of her sins. "My tongue is on fire. This is Satan’s piss. This is the drink of demons. Morgan, I have been cursed."

I rolled my eyes, completely unbothered. "Yep. And you brought it on yourself, Judas."

She groaned, gripping the edge of the counter like she was about to crumple to her knees. "Oh, Lord in heaven above, I repent. I have walked in sin, and I have suffered." She clutched her stomach dramatically. "Smite me where I stand, oh merciful one. Deliver me from this agony."

"God is busy, Janine," I deadpanned. "And even if He weren’t, I think He’d have better things to do than smite a thirteen-year-old for drinking one sip of warm beer."

"ONE sip?" she shrieked, slamming a hand over her chest like a televangelist about to collapse into a faint. "ONE sip?! I think my soul just left my body, Morgan. I saw the pearly gates. And St. Peter slammed them in my face. He said,* and I quote*, ‘Ew, no. Go back.’"

"Pearly gates? You are definitely going to Hell, but nice try," I muttered, tossing the half-empty can into the sink, letting it clang against the metal. "Maybe now you’ll stop asking me for one every week."

Janine ignored me, still mid-breakdown. "This," she rasped, "is what people willingly drink? This is what grown men write sonnets about? They fight wars over this! They DIE in pubs for this!"

I shrugged. "Well, Jesus turned water into wine, so—"

"Wine," she snapped, still hunched over like she was about to perish on the kitchen floor. "Wine, Morgan. Not whatever hellish concoction this is. This is not what He had in mind. This is—this is like—" she waved a hand wildly, searching for the words—"—the blood of Pontius Pilate."

I barked out a laugh. "Pontius Pilate?"

"YES!" she hissed, marching toward the sink and turning the faucet on full blast. "Betrayal in a can. The affliction of the masses. And my stomach—oh my God, I think I’m being punished. This is worse than the plagues of Egypt."

I leaned against the counter, thoroughly entertained. "Well, I did warn you."

Janine made a sound somewhere between a gag and a groan, clutching her stomach like she was a dying soldier on the battlefield. "Morgan," she wheezed, "I think my intestines are dissolving."

I rolled my eyes. "You took one sip, drama queen."

"One sip too many!" she cried, still doubled over the sink. "This is what Judas must have felt like at the Last Supper. Betrayed. Slandered. Poisoned by the wicked!"

"Judas betrayed Jesus," I reminded her, grabbing a paper towel and shoving it in her direction. "You're not the victim here."

"I beg to differ!" she wailed, wiping at her mouth like she was scrubbing away the sins of mankind. "My stomach feels like the ninth circle of hell."

And then, like the horror had just dawned on her, she snapped her head up, eyes wide with absolute panic. "Morgan, I drank on an empty stomach."

I froze. "Oh my God."

"Oh my God."

I lunged for the plate on the table, grabbed the half-eaten remains of her Sad Sandwich™, and shoved it into her hands. "Eat. Now."

Janine blinked at me, still reeling. "What?"

"The bread will soak it up!" I snapped, pushing the plate further into her chest. "Jesus Christ, Janine, do you want to die a gruesome death by booze?"

Boy did I love absolutely scaring the shit out of her. Maybe this might teach her a lesson.

She gasped, gripping the sandwich like it was a sacred relic. "Oh my God, you’re right."

And then—like she was a starving prisoner who had just been granted her final meal—she shoved the entire thing into her mouth in two unholy, horrifying bites.

It was grotesque. I had never seen someone eat that fast in my entire life.

"Chew," I commanded, watching in horror as she barely made an effort to comply, just stuffing the bread into her cheeks like a damn hamster.

She nodded aggressively, eyes darting wildly, still chewing like she was racing against time itself.

"Breathe," I added, half-expecting her to choke and add actual murder to my list of daily stressors.

She lifted a single finger, telling me to wait as she gulped it all down in a single, borderline inhuman swallow.

And then—silence.

We both stood there, unmoving. Janine stared at me. I stared at her.

Slowly, she touched her stomach. Paused. Waited.

Then—"I LIVE."

I groaned, pressing my fingers against my temples. "You are actually insufferable."

She let out a deep, exaggerated sigh of relief, dramatically patting her chest. "Blessed be the name of the Lord. The devil tried me, but I have PREVAILED."

I rubbed my temples harder. "Oh my God, just go to your room."

"With pleasure," she huffed, grabbing her Walkman from the table. "And for the record," she added, stepping dramatically toward the hallway, "this was your fault."

I whipped my head up. "MY fault?!"

"If you had just given me a beer weeks ago, I wouldn’t have had to steal one and suffer like this!"

I let out a strangled noise, resisting the urge to throw something at her as she disappeared up the stairs.

I listened for her door slamming, counted the seconds until she was gone.

Then, finally, I leaned against the counter, exhaling.

The house was quiet again.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring blankly at the chipped kitchen counter, letting the silence settle in around me like dust. The only sound was the faint hum of the fridge, the occasional creak of the house settling. The lingering smell of stale beer and cheap mayo clung to the air, reminding me that I should probably clean up the mess before Mum got home—if she got home at all tonight.

But I didn’t move.

Instead, I sighed, turned on my heel, and headed back upstairs to my bedroom, my body dragging with exhaustion with my sandwhich in hand.

I tossed my bag onto the bed and pulled out my arithmetic book, the thick spine of Linear Algebra & Calculus: A Comprehensive Approach landing with a dull thud on the wooden surface.

I cracked my knuckles, rolled my shoulders, and flipped to where I had last left off—somewhere deep in the trenches of eigenvalues, vector spaces, and transformations. Numbers were easier than people. They made sense, followed rules, didn’t shift unpredictably like everything else in my life.

So I worked.

And I worked.

The numbers blurred together, symbols morphing into something less concrete the longer I stared. I scribbled in the margins, erased, rewrote, checked my notes, tried again. Pages flipped. The clock on my nightstand ticked, eating away the hours as the evening bled into night.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered the dull ache in my stomach, the hollow emptiness that had been there since dinner—if you could even call that dinner. The Sad Sandwich™ had barely been enough to hold me over, and now, after hours hunched over my desk, my hunger gnawed at me again, a quiet, persistent reminder.

I ignored it.

I was so close to solving this problem—just one more step, just one more equation, just one—

I stopped.

I stared at the page.

I had hit a wall.

My pencil hovered over the problem, my brain refusing to find the next step, like a door slammed shut in my face. I furrowed my brows, running through every possible solution, but my thoughts were muddled, slipping through my fingers like sand.

I sighed, rubbing my eyes. The hunger was worse now, creeping up my ribs, making my limbs feel heavier, my mind slower. I should eat something. Anything.

But getting up felt impossible.

So I didn’t.

Instead, I let my head fall against the open textbook, the paper cool against my forehead.

I told myself I would rest just for a second.

Just long enough for my brain to reset.

Just long enough to push past this problem.

But sleep crept in before I could stop it, pulling me under, the hunger still lingering, unanswered, as the numbers faded into the darkness.

A sharp clack rang through the house, jolting me awake.

I blinked, disoriented, my face still pressed against the open pages of my textbook. My body was stiff from being hunched over for too long, my hand still limply gripping a pencil that had long since stopped moving.

Then I heard it again—the familiar sound of the screen door smacking against the main door. A telltale thud, slightly muffled but unmistakable.

Mom.

My stomach clenched.

I peeled my forehead off the paper, my eyes groggy as I squinted toward the wall. The old analog clock, its hands barely visible in the dim light, read midnight. No—one in the morning.

I sighed through my nose, automatically adding an hour to account for the fact that the damn thing was wrong. It had been like that for months, ever since daylight savings had messed it up, but it was too high up for me to fix, and, honestly, I was too lazy to bother.

My ears sharpened, listening for movement downstairs. A rustle. Keys dropped onto the table. The faint shuffle of tired steps.

I moved.

Quick, quiet.

I tiptoed toward my bed, careful not to step on the spots in the floor that creaked. My body was still heavy with sleep, my limbs sluggish, but my urgency overrode the exhaustion. I knew what would happen if she saw me awake.

She’d yell.

She’d berate me.

She’d demand to know why I was up, why I wasn’t in bed, why I was wasting my life away with my nose buried in books instead of being useful, why I wasn’t doing something real.

I had made the mistake before—being caught in the glow of my desk lamp, eyes still bleary from equations, my pencil slipping in my fingers. And she had let me have it.

So I wasn’t going to give her the chance tonight.

I reached my bed, lifted the covers, and jumped in, flipping onto my side and squeezing my eyes shut just as I heard the faint click of her heels being kicked off near the door.

My breathing slowed. I forced my shoulders to relax.

Footsteps on the stairs.

I lay still, forcing my face into a neutral expression, willing my chest to rise and fall in the slow rhythm of deep sleep.

The footsteps didn’t stop outside my door.

They passed.

She didn’t check.

I stayed frozen anyway, just in case.

The air was thick, the silence stretching.

Then, a door shutting.

I exhaled.

Slowly.

Carefully.

The tension in my limbs barely eased, my heartbeat still too fast in my chest. I let my fingers curl into the blankets, my body still coiled tight beneath them.

I didn’t move.

I wouldn’t move.

Not until I was sure she wouldn’t come back out.

I stayed still, my body curled beneath the blankets, listening for any sound that might betray her still being awake.

Seconds stretched into minutes. The house was still.

She wasn’t coming back out.

I exhaled slowly, cautiously, like even breathing too loud might summon her. My body remained rigid for another few minutes—just in case—until I finally reached out, fumbling in the dark for my alarm clock.

The cheap plastic felt cold under my fingers. It was a clunky thing, slightly cracked at the edges, the numbers on the screen glowing faintly red. It had been discarded in a dumpster behind the pharmacy two months ago, tossed away like trash, and for reasons I didn’t fully understand, I had taken it home. Fixed it. Given it purpose again.

At least something in this house deserved a second chance.

I pressed the buttons mechanically, setting the alarm for 8:00 AM. The beep was sharp, intrusive in the quiet.

I turned onto my side, facing the wall.

Tried to sleep.

Tried to let go.

But the weight in my chest didn’t fade. My heartbeat was still too fast, a dull, uneven rhythm that felt wrong.

My limbs felt stiff, too aware of the blankets pressing down on me, of the air in the room that suddenly felt too thick. I swallowed, my throat dry, my jaw clenched without me realizing.

I turned over. Then turned again.

My body ached with exhaustion, but my mind refused to shut off.

Every sound in the house became a reason to stay awake. The faint hum of the fridge downstairs. The occasional creak of the walls. The wind pressing against the windows. The lingering possibility that she might come back out, open my door, catch me—just because.

The thought sat heavy in my chest.

I curled in on myself, wrapping my arms tighter around my body, my fingers digging into the fabric of my sleeves.

I needed to sleep.

I needed to sleep.

I closed my eyes, but the dark behind my lids wasn’t quiet. It was loud, restless. The remnants of the day replayed behind my eyelids—Janine’s dramatics, the *Sad Sandwich™, the feel of Oliver’s stupid smirk still lingering somewhere in my brain. The feeling of running, of the screen door slamming, of knowing that at any moment, I could be—

I forced myself to breathe.

Slower.

Calmer.

Even if it didn’t work.

Eventually, exhaustion won. My thoughts didn’t fade, they just blurred, softening into something hazy and restless.

I didn’t fall asleep.

I drifted.

A sleepless slumber. The kind where you close your eyes, but you don’t feel rested. The kind where the weight in your chest never quite leaves.

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────

The thing about being half of something is that people always expect you to feel whole. Like you can take two separate, mismatched pieces and press them together to form a perfect, seamless image. A puzzle that fits cleanly. A line drawn neatly down the center, where neither side bleeds into the other. But that’s not how it works. Not for me, anyway.

My mother is white. Painfully white. The kind of woman who wears neutral tones and calls dinner "supper," whose side of the family is speckled with sunburn-prone cousins and blue-eyed aunts who all have the same thin-lipped smile. The kind who doesn’t talk much about my father—doesn’t need to, because he was never really here to begin with.

I don’t think of him often. Not because I don’t want to. Not because I’ve made some conscious choice to erase him. But because there’s nothing to think about.

He exists in fragments. Fleeting memories that might not even be real. A deep voice I can’t fully remember. A presence that feels more like a ghost than a man.

And what does that make me? Some days, I feel like a half-finished sketch. A painting where the colors never fully set. I look in the mirror, and my features don’t fit neatly into a single frame. My skin is too light to be fully Black, but too dark to be fully white. My hair is a mess of curls that never quite listen, never quite fall into the kind of clean, brushed-out waves my mother’s does.

It’s an in-between existence. And it’s lonely. Because the world doesn’t like in-between things. It likes categories, labels, boxes. It likes when you fit neatly. I don’t.

At school, the white girls don’t see me as one of them. At best, I’m interesting. At worst, I’m an outsider—something different, something "exotic" in a way that makes my skin crawl.

With Black girls, it’s not much better. Maybe it’s my voice, the way I talk. Maybe it’s the way my mother raised me, or barely raised her. Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t even know how to braid my own damn hair.

Either way, I always feel like I’m not quite enough to belong anywhere.

I exist in the cracks. The spaces between.

Half of one thing. Half of another.

But some days, it feels like I’m not half of anything at all.

Just missing pieces.

I remember the first time I noticed it—the difference.

I’ve lived in this town my whole life.

Stockbridge Village, formerly known as Cantril Farm, is a small community in Merseyside, England. Built in the 1960s to rehouse families from inner-city Liverpool, it was intended to be a fresh start—a new beginning. But by the 1980s, it had become a place where everyone knew everyone, and everyone knew me.

In a community that was predominantly white, I stood out.

This was the kind of place where everyone knows everyone. Where people smile at you in the streets, not because they like you, but because that’s just what people do here. Where the shopkeepers remember your name, your mother’s name, and what kind of milk you usually buy.

But the thing is—no matter how many times I walk down the same roads, past the same butcher shop, the same post office, the same old church with its half-crumbling bell tower—I have never quite felt like I belonged here.

Because in a town like Stockbridge, people notice things.

And they notice me.

It happens in the grocery store. The lingering glances, the subtle shift in body language when I walk past an aisle. The way an older woman might clutch her purse just a little tighter, the way a man might glance twice, not out of recognition, but out of curiosity. The cashier at the till, the same one who’s been working there since I was old enough to count change, hesitates before handing me my receipt. The briefest flicker of something—confusion? Mistrust? Pity?

I never know.

I tell myself I’m imagining it. That it’s all in my head.

But then, sometimes, I hear it.

Not often. Never loud. Never to my face.

But in passing. Whispered.

"Who’s that girl again?" "Not from ‘round here, is she?" "Her Mum’s that blonde woman, isn’t she? Wonder where her dad is."

I don’t answer them. I don’t correct them.

What would I even say? "I’m from here. I always have been." "I know these streets better than you do." "My dad isn’t here. He never was."

But words don’t change the way people look at you. They don’t stop the shift in their eyes when you walk past, the way their attention lingers a second longer than necessary. They don’t change the fact that every time I step outside, I am reminded—subtly, quietly, constantly—that I do not belong the way they do.

Like now.

The morning air is crisp, biting at my exposed skin as I walk down the narrow pavement, my breath curling in faint wisps against the chill. The sky is a pale gray, the kind that threatens rain but never quite follows through. It’s too early to be out, and too late to feel like I’ve beaten the morning rush. The grocery store opened thirty minutes ago, and I’m walking toward it with an empty stomach and the one twenty-pound note clutched tightly in my hand.

The money had been saved, not given. That was an important distinction. I had tucked it away in the safest place I could think of—between the books under my bed, wrapped in old, crinkled orange paper from God knows how long ago. I never spent unless I had to. But this morning, I had to.

Janine had eaten the last slice of bread. The milk had gone sour two days ago. I was pretty sure the lettuce in the fridge was evolving into something that could speak.

So here I was.

My stomach twisted—not from hunger, but from the quiet, familiar tension that always settled in my bones when I had to go into town alone.

The road to the shop was always the same. Past the small butcher’s shop, where Mr. Whitmore stood outside chatting to an older man, both of them wrapped in their tweed coats like they had stepped out of a Visit England poster. Past the post office, where a queue of pensioners waited with envelopes tucked under their arms, some clutching their purses so tightly their knuckles had gone pale. Past the church—the same old church with its crumbling bell tower, its doors propped open by a brick, where someone had already laid fresh flowers outside on the steps.

Everything in Stockbridge was predictable. Routine. Except me.

A passing car slowed—just slightly—as it rolled by. A woman in a beige coat turned her head when I passed her on the pavement. An older man sitting on a bench lowered his newspaper, eyes flicking up for a second too long before turning the page.

It was always like this. A quiet, unspoken reminder: I was noticed. I tugged the sleeves of my sweater down over my fingers, gripping the money tighter in my palm. The coins in my pocket rattled with each step, an uneven weight I was suddenly very aware of.

I reached the store. The automatic doors slid open with a mechanical hiss, the warm scent of stale bread and disinfectant washing over me. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too sterile.

A woman at the entrance glanced at me, then away. I exhaled, shaking off the stiffness in my shoulders, and grabbed a basket (not a trolley, they were big, bulky, and made god-awful noises when pushed). It was just groceries. Just food.

I moved through the aisles with quiet precision, keeping my head down, my steps light. The store wasn’t too crowded yet—mostly older women with their baskets, a few men flipping through newspapers at the front. It smelled like disinfectant and aging produce, with a faint, lingering trace of something fried from the little hot food counter near the back.

I clutched my shopping list in one hand, the twenty-pound notes in my pocket pressing against my leg like a reminder. Three apples. Probably about 35p each. I hovered near the fruit section, selecting three that looked decent enough. £1.05 so far.

Tomatoes. Maybe 50p for a few decent ones. I picked up a bag and weighed it in my palm, my mind automatically rounding the total up to £1.55. Eggs. A dozen should be around 60p. I added them carefully to my basket. £2.15.

Meat. I hesitated near the butcher’s counter. I usually skipped this part, but today, I had a little extra to spare. Something cheap. I scanned the options and settled on a small pack of minced beef. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The price tag read £1.90.

£4.05 total.

I moved toward the bread aisle, the soft hum of the store’s radio filling the silence. Bread was usually one of the last things I grabbed—it was an easy choice, no need to overthink. I reached for a loaf, the familiar texture of plastic packaging crinkling under my fingers.

And then, I took a step back. Right onto someone’s foot.

"Oh, hell—"

I whipped around so fast I nearly knocked my own basket over. "I’m so sorry, I—" And then I saw who I had stepped on.

Him. Oliver.

I blinked. Then blinked again. What the—

"You!" I blurted out, my voice somehow both sharp and flat at the same time.

His mouth curled into a lopsided grin, the kind that immediately put me on edge. "Call me Ollie. We’re practically friends now."

I rolled my eyes to mask the fact that my brain was currently short-circuiting. "We are not friends."

His grin widened, like he could hear the lie in my voice. "Practically," he repeated, leaning against the shelf like he had all the time in the world.

I crossed my arms, my heart still hammering from the shock. "What are you doing here?"

He cleared his throat, shifting slightly. "I—uh—" He scratched the back of his neck. "I totally didn’t follow you here, if that’s what you’re thinking."

I squinted. "I was not thinking that." (I was now, though.)

"Good! Because that would be weird,*" he added quickly. "And I am absolutely not weird."

I gave him a look. "Debatable."

Oliver—Ollie—straightened up, clearing his throat again, as if he’d just remembered what his actual excuse was supposed to be. "I work here."

I frowned. "Huh?"

"Yeah," he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Started last week. Part-time."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because money exists, Morgan. And people need money to buy things."

I ignored the way my stomach flipped when he said my name.

"You—" I hesitated, eyeing him carefully. "You work here."

Ollie tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That is what I just said."

And I should have just left it at that.

I should have rolled my eyes, muttered something dismissive, grabbed my stupid loaf of bread, and walked away like he didn’t affect me at all.

But instead, my eyes flickered—just for a second—to his mouth.

It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t planned. But once I looked, I couldn’t seem to unlook.

His lips curved into the beginnings of another smirk, the kind that sent a sharp little thrill down my spine before I could stop it. They were pinker than I expected, softer, like the kind of lips that would probably be really good at—

Oh my God.

My breath caught, a sudden rush of heat prickling at the back of my neck.

Had I just—?

Had I seriously just thought about—?

My entire body tensed, my fingers tightening instinctively around the handle of my basket.

No. No, no, no, absolutely not. Not happening.

I blinked rapidly, tearing my gaze away, my heart hammering so hard I was convinced he could hear it.

Ollie was still talking—something about nepotism and barely working and customer service—but I couldn’t focus. Not when my own brain had just betrayed me like that.

What was wrong with me?

This was Oliver Bearman. The same boy who had run me over with his bike, who had rummaged through my notebook, who had followed me here (okay, fine, maybe that last part wasn’t confirmed—but still).

He was a nuisance.

A smug, infuriating, insufferable nuisance.

So why—

Why had my brain, in the middle of a perfectly normal conversation, decided to briefly entertain the thought of what it would be like to—

I swallowed hard.

I needed to leave.

I needed to grab my damn loaf of bread, pay, and pretend this—whatever this was—never happened.

So that’s exactly what I did.

I turned sharply on my heel, grabbed the first loaf I could reach, and marched toward the till like I had somewhere very important to be.

Ollie chuckled behind me, low and knowing.

"Where are you going?" he called, voice laced with amusement.

I clenched my jaw. "Away from you," I shot back, my tone indignant but kept to a hushed whisper because, unlike him, I had some concept of volume control in a public setting.

But of course, Ollie, being Ollie, took that as a personal challenge.

"Away from me?" he repeated, deliberately raising his voice, eyebrows shooting up in exaggerated offense. "Morgan, I’m hurt. Truly. You wound me."

Heads turned.

I panicked.

Before I could think twice about it, I grabbed his arm, my fingers wrapping around the sleeve of his shirt, and dragged him down an aisle, maneuvering him behind one of the taller shelves where fewer people would see.

Ollie stumbled slightly but let me pull him along, clearly enjoying this far too much. As soon as we were tucked between rows of canned goods and breakfast cereals, he turned to me with that same boyish grin, eyes bright, breathless from my sudden ambush.

"Oliver, shush yourself," I hissed, glancing over my shoulder, making sure no one had followed.

Ollie, of course, didn’t shush himself.

Instead, he leaned against the shelf with that ridiculous kind of casual ease—one arm propped up as he pushed his tousled hair away from his face, like he was posing for some imaginary camera.

"This is very suspicious behavior, Morgan," he mused, voice dipped in mock conspiracy. "Dragging me into a hidden aisle? All very intimate, very secretive. Should I be concerned?”

I glared at him. "You should be concerned about me throwing a can of beans at your head."

He let out a huff of laughter, looking far too pleased with himself.

I turned away, inhaling through my nose, pretending like the heat crawling up my neck wasn’t happening. My basket was still half empty, and I refused to let Ollie derail my entire morning.

I focused on the shelves, scanning the prices.

Eggs, bread, apples—those were covered. I still needed—

"Shouldn’t you be doing something?" I muttered, grabbing a can of canned corn and tucking it into my basket.

"I am," he said simply.

I frowned, glancing at him. "What?"

Ollie grinned. "Watching you."

My entire body tensed.

Heat bloomed across my cheeks, and I hated how immediate it was. I could feel him watching me, his gaze trailing as I reached for another item, as if my very existence was now entertainment for him.

I ignored him, setting my focus back on my mental math.

Canned corn—probably 30p each. That brought my total up to £4.35.

I reached for a tin of beans—around 20p.

Ollie shifted slightly, still leaning lazily against the shelf, arms crossed now. "You’re really serious about this whole shopping thing, huh?"

I scoffed, plopping the can into my basket. "Yes, Oliver. That’s generally how grocery shopping works."

"Ollie," he corrected smoothly.

I ignored him.

"See, I just figured you’d be the type to wander around, daydreaming about something dramatic," he continued, voice teasing. "But no—look at you. All business. Calculating costs like a real grown-up."

I rolled my eyes, grabbing a bag of pasta. "Yes, imagine that. Being financially responsible."

Ollie smirked, shifting his weight onto one foot. "Hot."

My fingers fumbled around the pasta bag.

I turned to glare at him, heart hammering in my chest. "Do you ever shut up?"

"Not when I’m enjoying myself," he said, flashing that insufferable grin.

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to focus only on the basket, only on the numbers in my head.

Pasta—around 50p.

Total: £5.05.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders to stay relaxed as I moved toward the meat section. Chicken. That was next.

I scanned the shelves carefully, my fingers tightening slightly around the handle of my basket. The cheapest cut I could find—a small pack of chicken thighs, nothing fancy, just enough to stretch across a few meals—£2.50. I hesitated, weighing the cost in my mind, but eventually added it to my basket.

Bananas. A safe choice. Cheap, versatile. I grabbed a small bunch, about 40p, estimating the weight in my palm before placing them inside.

Next was ham—a small roll, nothing extravagant, but enough to make sandwiches for Janine. £1.30.

And then—tilapia.

I shouldn’t.

I shouldn’t.

Fish wasn’t a necessity, wasn’t part of the list, wasn’t safe. But for some reason, I reached for the fillet anyway, my fingers grazing over the cool plastic. It wasn’t the most expensive choice—£2.00, hardly anything outrageous.

But still, the moment it landed in my basket, a pit settled in my stomach.

I stood still for a moment, mentally stacking the numbers, adding them up again and again to make sure I hadn’t miscalculated.

Apples, tomatoes, eggs, minced beef, bread, canned tomatoes, beans, pasta, chicken, bananas, ham, tilapia.

I swallowed.

£10.25.

Too much.

The realization made my stomach churn.

I reached into my coat pockets first, fingers blindly searching for anything—anything—that might push me over the limit. I patted down my jeans next, then dug into my purse, moving through the worn fabric with urgency.

Nothing.

No loose coins, no hidden extras.

My chest tightened as heat crawled up the back of my neck.

I hated this.

I hated this feeling.

Just as I was about to resign myself to putting something back, I caught movement from the corner of my eye.

"Here."

I turned, and my stomach dropped.

Ollie stood there, holding out a few coins in his palm.

I froze.

My jaw clenched as something hot and uncomfortable curled inside me.

"I don’t want your charity," I muttered, voice quieter than I intended but sharp nonetheless.

His brows lifted slightly, taken aback, but only for a second. Then, something in his face shifted—not into pity (thank God, because I could not handle pity), but something softer. Something… understanding.

"It’s not charity," he said, tilting his head slightly. "It’s called being a decent person. I know, shocking concept."

I wanted to scoff. I wanted to roll my eyes, to shake him off and prove that I was fine—that I could handle this, like I always did.

But my fingers twitched.

The idea of putting something back made my stomach turn.

Ollie must’ve seen the hesitation on my face because his smirk came back, this time more playful than smug.

"Alright, look," he started, shifting slightly on his feet. "If it makes you feel better, think of it as an investment. One day, when you’re rich and famous from your ridiculous romance novels, you can pay me back with interest."*

My head snapped up.

"I don’t write romance novels."

"Mhm." He grinned like he knew something I didn’t. "Sure you don’t."

I hated how fast my face heated up.

I glanced at his hand again, at the coins, at the easy way he held them out—like it wasn’t a big deal.

Like it wasn’t humiliating.

My jaw tightened. My pride screamed at me to refuse.

But I also wasn’t about to let my stomach growl all night over a stupid fifty pence.

I grabbed the coins before I could overthink it, shoving them into my pocket so fast it was like I had been burned.

"This doesn’t mean we’re friends," I muttered.

Ollie’s grin stretched.

"Oh, obviously." His voice was all lighthearted amusement. "But if it did, I’d be your favorite friend, wouldn’t I?"

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.

He laughed, stepping back, rocking slightly on his heels like he had won something.

And—against my better judgment—my lips twitched. Just a little. Barely there.

But I refused to let him see it.

I tucked the coins into my pocket, exhaling through my nose as if that would somehow steady the weird, jittery feeling curling in my stomach. It’s just some change. Nothing more. Get over it.

Ollie, however, did not get over it.

"So," he started, still grinning like he had all the time in the world. "Now that you’re officially in my debt—"

I whipped my head toward him. "I am not in your debt."

"Sure you are," he said breezily. "Fifty pence is no small sum, Morgan. That’s, like—"

"Not even worth one of your fancy coffees," I muttered, grabbing another can from the shelf, trying to focus on the numbers in my head instead of him.

"Exactly," he said, as if I had just made his point for him. "Which means you owe me, and since you seem so set against paying me back financially, I’ll settle for information instead."

I gave him a look. "Information?"

"Yep." He leaned against the shelf again, arms crossed, eyes sharp with mischief. "Who is Morgan Chapman?"

I blinked.

My fingers tensed slightly against the can in my hand.

"I—what?"

"You heard me," he said, tilting his head slightly. "You’re a mystery, and I like solving mysteries."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, come on. There’s nothing mysterious about me."

"Mhm."

"Stop making that noise."

"What noise?"

"That—" I waved vaguely. "That smug little noise."

"Ah, that one." His grin widened.

I exhaled sharply, very close to just leaving my basket and walking out of the store altogether.

"Why are you like this?" I muttered, my voice half exasperation, half genuine confusion. "Why are you bothering me?"

Ollie just shrugged.

"Because."

That was it. No reason. No explanation. Just a simple, infuriating, because.

I stared at him.

"You are—" I stopped myself before I could say something rude and instead reached for another item, willing my face to not heat up. "—ugh."

"See! You have nothing to say!" he quipped back cheekily.

"Because you won’t leave me alone," I shot back.

"True," he admitted, completely unapologetic.

I pressed my lips together, shaking my head as I focused back on my shopping. I was not going to entertain whatever this was.

As Mrs. Tillet said (also can't believe I would fucking reference that goddamnned wench but here we are), pure hogwash. Learn to ignore the silly stuff.

"So, how long have you lived here?" he asked, switching tactics.

"My whole life."

"Huh. Must be nice, knowing everyone."

I let out a soft, dry laugh. "Not really."

"Really?" He raised an eyebrow. "Because I just got here, and I’m having a great time."

I shot him a look. "That’s because you don’t know any better yet."

"Ouch." He pressed a hand to his chest like I had personally wounded him. "What makes you think I won’t love it here?"

"Because it’s Stockbridge," I said flatly, shoving a bag of rice into my basket.

Ollie laughed. "Alright, fair point. But I don’t really have a choice."

"What do you mean?"

His grin wavered slightly—not disappearing, but softening. He glanced away for a second, running a hand through his hair.

"My parents split up," he said after a beat. "A couple months ago. It was messy. Too much arguing. So my Mum sent me here to live with my aunt until I turn twenty and can get my own place."

I blinked.

"Oh," I said quietly.

I didn’t know what else to say.

I knew what divorce looked like from the outside, but I had never been close enough to it to understand it. And hearing him say it so casually, like it was just another fact, made something in my chest twinge.

Ollie must have noticed my discomfort because, within seconds, he bounced back, his smirk returning like he had flipped some internal switch.

"So now, I get to spend my days working at this fine establishment, helping lovely customers such as yourself."

I arched an eyebrow. "You mean your aunt’s store."

"Yep."

"Wait—your aunt?"

"Aunt Sarah," he confirmed.

I blinked again.

"Sarah Davies?"

"The very same."

That made way too much sense.

Mrs. Davies—his Aunt Sarah—had always been the type to hover behind the counter, keeping an eye on customers like she was waiting for them to try something. She was sharp, observant, no-nonsense, but I could see it now—the similar curve of their noses, the way their eyes flickered with humor when they spoke.

I scolded myself for noticing that much about him.

"Huh," I muttered. "That actually explains a lot."

"What, my natural charm and work ethic?"

"More like your ability to slack off and still have a job."

"Hey," he said, feigning offense. "I stock things. Occasionally. When I feel like it."

I shook my head, turning back to my basket.

"Alright, then," I said, shifting topics. "What do you want to do after this? After you turn twenty and don’t have to work for your aunt anymore?"

Ollie brightened. "I want to build cars."

That caught me off guard.

"Like—" I tilted my head. "Fixing them? Or—?"

"No, like, engineering them. Designing them. I love how they work, how everything fits together, how every part has a purpose. It’s like—" he gestured wildly with his hands, "—a massive puzzle, except the puzzle can go 200 miles per hour if you do it right."

I blinked at the sudden energy shift.

"Oh."

"Oh?" He looked almost offended. "Morgan, cars are incredible. They’re a mix of art and engineering and physics all in one. Have you ever actually looked under the hood of a car? It’s brilliant. The way the pistons fire, the way the cooling system regulates everything—it’s like clockwork but a thousand times more complex."

I stared at him.

"I don’t know how to drive."

"That is devastating information."

"Well, excuse me for not having a car lying around."

Ollie gasped dramatically. "How do you even get around for long distances?"

I shot him a look. "I walk."

His face twisted like I had just told him I fought wild animals for sport. "You walk?"

"Or I take the bus," I added, grabbing a tin of beans from the shelf.

Ollie blinked, processing. "That’s… tragic."

I rolled my eyes. "It’s called public transport, Oliver. Most people use it."

"Yeah, and most people hate it." He paused, shifting on his feet, a spark of thought flickering across his face. Then, suddenly, he perked up. "Oh! I actually found something the other day."

I glanced at him warily. "That’s never a good way to start a sentence."

"No, no, hear me out." His voice dipped into something conspiratorial, and I immediately regretted engaging. "So, there’s this old junkyard, right? Just outside of town. It’s filled with tons of abandoned cars. Some of them are still in decent shape."

I blinked. "And?"

His grin stretched. "And we should go."

I stared at him like he had just grown a second head. "Go where?"

"To the junkyard!" He gestured wildly, like this was obvious. "Think about it! A midnight adventure, surrounded by forgotten machines, peeling paint, and cracked windshields—like walking through history! And if—hypothetically—we manage to find one that still works…" He wiggled his eyebrows.

My stomach dropped. "Oh, absolutely not."

"C’mon," he pressed. "Just picture it. The two of us, sneaking out in the dead of night, dodging security guards, hotwiring some old car—"

"I'm going to be so honest, I don't think this little town has security guards," I cut in.

"—peeling out onto the open road, wind in our hair, not a single care in the world—"

"Oliver."

"—a total Bonnie and Clyde moment, but without the murder, obviously—"

I shot him a sharp glare. "Do you hear yourself right now?"

He only grinned wider. "Morgan, this could be the plot for your next novel! Two enemies forced together by fate—"

I groaned, gripping my basket tighter.

"—an old car, a midnight escape, forbidden tension—"

I gave him a look.

He snapped his fingers. "Call it Driven by Desire. You should pen this idea down right this instant Morgan. I've given you a millionaire man's idea!" He threw his hands up, voice increasing in decibel by the second.

I stared at him, deadpan. "I hate you."

"You don’t," he said smoothly. "But it’s okay, take your time realizing it."

I let out a slow, long exhale. "There is no way I’m sneaking into a junkyard with you in the middle of the night."

Ollie clasped his hands together like he was in prayer. "Morgan. Morgan. Think about the narrative. Think about the adventure."

I shook my head, shifting my basket. "Not happening."

"Eleven-thirty," he said as if I hadn’t spoken, his voice dropping to a hushed tone, full of exaggerated secrecy. "Back gate of the old scrapyard, just off Holloway Road. You can’t miss it—big, ugly rusted sign, looks like it’s been there since the Holy Roman Empire, which by the way, was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire, which quite frankly, is odd," He trailed off, lost in thought. Regaining his senses, he continued to speak, "Meet me there."

I squinted at him. "You are seriously asking me to meet you at some abandoned lot at night."

"Yes," he said, sliding closer. Before I could react, he deftly slipped a piece of paper into my basket, right between a can of tomatoes and a bag of rice.

I stared at it like it had personally offended me.

"Did you just—"

"Consider it an invitation," he cut in smoothly.

I picked up the crumpled scrap of receipt paper, unimpressed. "You wrote it down?"

He grinned. "Didn’t want you to forget."

I groaned, stuffing the paper into my coat pocket without looking at it. "You are actually the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met."

"Uh huh, sure," He rolled his eyes.

"My life was never this messy and chaotic before I met you," I said.

"Silly, silly, Morgan. You never even had a life before you met me, that's why," He let out a huge grin.

"Oh you bastard," The corners of my lips were inching up in a smile.

"You are showing up Morgan, I hypnotize you," He waved his hands in front of my face in a silly motion. His slender pale fingers waving in front of my face so closely, I could see the individual calluses on his hands.

A boy of hard work.

I scoffed. "You think I’m actually showing up?"

"Absolutely," he said, no hesitation.

I huffed, shaking my head, determined to ignore him as I made my way toward the checkout.

But three hours later, standing in my bedroom, staring at that stupid crumpled receipt, I realized—

I was going.

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taglist: @thatsnotaddy @schumacherluvr

author's note: this chapter was originally 22K words but then tumblr said i exceeded the number of line blocks (it apparently is 1000 lines and i had 2552 lines 😭 i didn't realize how many lines dialogue actually takes up) let me know what you enjoyed about this fic and any pieces feedback if you have any :) anyways, comment to be added to the taglist!

[too-antigonish]

My Strange but Unified Theory of Exeunt

Last week I talked about the poem Horatio in a post about Morse and fathers and @astridcontramundum asked what I thought it meant in the context of Exeunt. Hopefully she won't be sorry she asked because here's my (as usual) long answer:

Horatio is quoted from twice in Exeunt. The first time, Prof. Fortescue is lecturing to his students at a tutorial and gives us the most famous lines:  

Then out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate:  "To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods?"

The second time occurs just before Thursday’s has his “turn” in the same spot where Morse will many years later experience his own collapse. He says: ”’How well Horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of old.’ We'd a padre big on that out in the desert. Drumhead service just before Alamein. ‘And how can man die better than facing fearful odds?’ Always stuck with me.”

I think they used those lines to plainly tease the idea that Thursday was going to die. Prior to Exeunt airing, almost everyone thought Thursday would have to die in order to explain Morse’s never mentioning him again in the future. When Fortescue says those lines in the beginning, I think we’re supposed to think that someone—probably Thursday—is going to die heroically. Then Thursday repeats some of the poem—connecting it to his WWII service—just before he has his “spell” and it seems like more foreshadowing. 

The thing about the poem though, that most people *don’t* know, is that the big surprise at the end is that Horatio *doesn’t* die. It just looks like he will: Even when his companions have abandoned the bridge because it is on the verge of collapse, Horatius remains. He stays until bridge finally does fail, and then plunges into the river below with the full weight of his armor. It is certain death and both sides stand stunned into silence by his final sacrifice.

But then, both sides find themselves even more surprised when they see the crest of his helmet beginning to rise from the water and he slowly emerges, striding towards the Roman bank. He not only survives, but arrives home to a hero’s welcome and a long life.

All of the usual narrative pieces are in place for us to expect Thursday to make the ultimate sacrifice—to die. For me, Thursday—like Horatio—does sacrifice everything, but the poem was actually foreshadowing his survival, not his death. And for Thursday, his survival is in many ways a far more difficult sacrifice than death would have been. It would have been easier for him in so many ways if he had died in defense of Sam or even fighting Lott. Instead he has to live with the ambiguous and messy aftermath.

Morse could also be Horatio in the sense that he goes to Blenheim Vale facing a high probability of death. What were the chances that the bikers would “come through” for him? That Morse went expecting to be double-crossed and killed by Lott seems much more likely to me. But I do think that Morse, like Horatio, would reason that, “If you’re going to go, then there’s no better way than defending the things that are most important to you,” and so he goes anyway.

He survives too—but unlike Horatio, his heroism will always remain a secret *and* with his realization about Thursday’s guilt and Lott’s revelation about Tomahawk’s identity, it brings perhaps more sorrow than it does victory. And, I would argue that his survival is only temporary or perhaps partial.

The gunshot scene has many possible interpretations, but at its core, my (forever unprovable) theory is that it balances out the survival foreshadowed by Horatio. Horatio was all about the audience assuming that Thursday had to die. But along with that went the assumption that of course Endeavour had to live. This is a prequel after all.

But the gunshot scene said a big, loud, “No. We can kill off Endeavour if we want to and we will.” You can go back and forth until the cows come home about whether or not the scene was simply him contemplating death, actually going through with it, or absolutely, purely symbolic and imaginative. However, I don’t think you can honestly argue that the scene doesn’t somehow connect the concepts of  “Endeavour Morse,” “gun,” and “death” to each other. Somehow those concepts have to be included in any interpretation.

So this leads to my weird theory about Exeunt, which is that Russ Lewis heard everyone saying, “Well I don’t know what’s going to happen in the end, but of course we all know that Morse is going to live—so no suspense there. And Thursday, well, he has to die. I mean it’s the only way to explain why we never hear about him later.” And to this, Russ Lewis thought, “Ha! I’m going to do exactly the opposite. Thursday lives and Morse dies!” 

Am I right? I will never know. Do I have more thoughts on Exeunt? You really, really don't want to know just how many.

[thecommandertable]

Keystone Commanders and How to Avoid Them

I think most Commander players realize that there are some decks that just fold in upon themselves when they can't keep their commander on the battlefield. I like to call these kinds of commanders "keystone commanders".

A keystone is that large, wedge-shaped central stone at the top of an arch. The idea is that if you remove that one piece, the whole thing collapses. If you've studied ecology or conservation, you're probably familiar with the term "keystone species"; a species that plays an integral role in sustaining an ecosystem. Likewise, a keystone commander has an integral role in a deck's strategy; without it, that deck won't be able to execute its gameplan.

Keystone commanders are often very powerful! I have an Arcades, the Strategist deck, all about attacking people with defender creatures.

Arcades draws a bunch of cards and lets me attack with an ever-growing squad of large-toughness creatures like Shield Sphere, Wall of Shards, and The Pride of Hull Clan. Take Arcades off the battlefield, though, and I'm left with a bunch of creatures that can't attack. Savvy opponents will just kill and counter Arcades until I can't cast him anymore due to commander tax, or use something like Darksteel Mutation or Kenrith's Transformation to turn off his abilities. Powerful keystone commanders tend to make for these hot-and-cold strategies. Either your commander sticks and you win handily or it doesn't and your deck does next to nothing. That might not be a big deal if you've got a wide variety of decks, but if you've only got a handful and most of them fit this mold, the polarizing gameplay can get tiresome. It can happen pretty easily, too; keystone commanders are enticing to build around for less experienced deckbuilders, as their designs tend to provide a clear roadmap to how to build the deck. It doesn't take a veteran Commander player to look at Arcades and realize that the deck should be chock-full of defender creatures, but it does take experience to foresee the consequences of building a deck that's so reliant on its commander.

Well, what to do?

Sometimes the solution is swapping in a different Commander. One of my earliest Commander decks was a White/Blue flyers & blink deck with Isperia, Supreme Judge at the helm, but when Brago, King Eternal was printed a couple years later, I eagerly swapped him in over Isperia: his ability was on-theme, after all, and he was on the whole a much more powerful commander. I added Strionic Resonator, which can go infinite with Brago's ability and some mana rocks. As I kept playing with Brago, it became more and more obvious to me and my friends that whether I won or not depended entirely on whether I could keep Brago on the board long enough to start attacking with him. Classic keystone commander.

I cut value flying creatures for more counterspells to protect Brago and more mana rocks to ensure that I would be able to combo with Strionic Resonator. At one point it stopped being about flying creatures altogether—it was just about Brago. And after a decade of Brago's despotic ghostly grip on the deck, I decided to depose him. I replaced him with Yorion, Sky Nomad. Yorion still gives me good value even if an opponent kills it right away, its ability doesn't threaten an infinite combo, and the cards it works well with, creatures with enters effects and flicker spells like Ephemerate, also work well with each other in case Yorion's not on the battlefield.

Other commanders provide a little more flexibility in how you build around them, and the degree to which they are keystone commanders can vary. For instance, many players who build Feather, the Redeemed will build her as a Voltron deck.

Voltron Feather recurs spells like Titan's Strength and Psychotic Fury to grow Feather and crack in for big chunks of damage. As you might imagine, any deck looking to kill people with commander damage is going to have a keystone commander regardless of what it is. Voltron Feather, though hard to kill due to repeatable protection spells like Loran's Escape and Boon of Safety, like any keystone commander, will leave the deck in the lurch if she can't do her thing. Fortunately, there are lots of different directions you can take a Feather the Redeemed deck. My personal build mixes a creature token theme with a devotion-to-white subtheme and has lots of ways to recur small creatures. I use Feather primarily as a card draw engine—letting me reuse cantrips like Bandage and Crimson Wisps—and the deck as a whole is a lot more powerful when she's in play. But if she gets killed in the mid-to-late game, assuming I still control my other creatures, I can still get over the finish line without her. You can consider many commander deckbuilding decisions in this light. Not every card choice will make the difference between making your commander keystone or not, but they'll shift the needle a little bit. For example, putting background cards in the 99, such as Guild Artisan, will push that needle towards keystone-ness; or at least make your commander a juicier target for opponents' removal. Same goes for Lieutenant creatures like Skyhunter Strike Force.

In general, you'll want to be careful about cards that require your commander to be on the battlefield to function at all; say Well of Lost Dreams in a Dragonlord Dromoka deck that doesn't have many ways to gain life outside of Dromoka's lifelink: it might be a decent way to draw cards, but it's also further incentivizing opponents to aim their removal spells at Dromoka. If you're looking to build a new commander deck and want to get away from keystone commanders, here are some criteria to look for:

Low mana-value commanders that you can play early for value, either by ramping you or drawing cards: Ruby, Daring Tracker; Azusa, Lost but Seeking; Jori En, Ruin Diver

Commanders with "enter" effects, like Gonti, Lord of Luxury; Sharuum the Hegemon; Prime Speaker Zegana

Commanders whose abilities have a lot of redundancies among their 99: Sythis, Harvest's Hand; Nekusar, the Mindrazer

Alternately, as you're building a new deck, ask yourself these questions:

Can my deck win without its commander on the battlefield?

If I were playing against this deck, how highly would I prioritize killing its commander?

Hopefully this will help you diversify your commander portfolio a little bit. I want to reiterate that having the occasional keystone commander isn't a bad thing, it's only that it's very easy to fall into the habit of exclusively building around powerful keystone commanders—and when your playgroup gets in the mindset that your commander always needs to die, well, they tend to kill your commander a lot.

[zopharooni]

"Waking up"

A short DMAU story

Suddenly I found myself kneeling on cold stone, and... by the five it's bright here.

Where... am I?

I dig into my brain to remember, what happened?

Pain. A splitting headache, no, migraine. What is this feeling? I force myself up, yet failing, collapsing back onto the cold stone. A ritual stone. My limbs are trembling and quaking, almost unresponsive to my commands. A sharp pain in my chest makes itself apparent, and as I draw in a breath, my stomach churns and threatens to make a mess of the ground below me. Forcing the feeling back down, I feel nothing but heat, my mind spinning, the world around me fuzzy.

Two figures make themselves known, familiar, yet I cannot bring myself to remember who they are. Any thought that comes close to piecing it together is fiercely torn apart by the pain circling in my skull. I see their mouths move and... wait... I can't hear them?

The revelation is swiftly interrupted by another wave of nausea, yet this time, I fail to keep it contained. The acid stings my throat and mouth, bringing an awful taste along with it.

I force myself to stand, disgusted by the result of this terrible illness that has afflicted me. Succeeding, I take a better look at the 2 figures, now running at me. Heretics? Coming for my crown? No, I can't let this happen. I take a step backwards, and my vision begins to fade. They are right on me as I stumble backwards and begin to fall. Wait, is that...?

Darkness.

I awaken again, this time on a bed. I feel myself slipping into unconsciousness once more, and briefly taking in my surroundings, it appears to be a medical bay. Various books, bottles and herbs litter the surrounding tables. The stand to my side has a bowl of soup, and a cup of tea.

The darkness persists. I can't move, the illness forcing my body to shut down.

Over an unknown amount of time, I can occasionally catch glimpses of movement in and out of the medical bay. A rat, and a goat. Who are they? I feel I should know, but my condition betrays me. Both seem to monitor me. The rat never staying too long, always seeming occupied, yet... Concerned.

But the goat? It stays for longer. Sitting by my bed and observing. I swear I can see it's mouth move, as if speaking to me.

Light. I feel myself awakening. My bones weak, muscles aching from lack of activity. Yet, I can finally think straight. My memories are still foggy, but I'm sure they will come with time. Right now, I need to get a better look at that rat. Who are they? I should know this.

As I look around the medical bay, able to fully take in what's happening, the goat is there. Staring, as if in disbelief, and yet a slight concern in it's eyes.

I know this goat.

"You!" I mutter.

I leap from my bed, feeling a sudden vitality upon seeing his face.

He steps back, surprised by my lunge, yet too slow to get enough distance.

I rapidly close the small distance, arms outstretched...

and swiftly embrace him in a hug.

"Solomon... By the five, I've missed you..."

[tenpintsof-sundrop]

Can we please have a sneak peek at your Donna Troy x kryptonian reader, chemical brain fic?

I LOOOOOVE how there is one person who follows me who is obsessed with Donna Troy. and specifically obsessed with this fic (you are probably the person who requested it, shout out to you)

when I finish this fic, know it was for you. ALSO, I added 'first kiss with Donna Troy' to my schedule, just for you <333

I am gonna put this one back on my schedule again too

also looking at it, there is way more of it done than I thought there was (but I still need to finish like 60% of it oof)

soooo - SURE. a preview it is

(Currently Untitled) The Rage Chemical Fic - Donna Troy x Fem!Kryptonian!Reader (Angst, Hurt and Comfort) - FANFIC PREVIEW

(also this fic really needs a title. like badly)

Warnings for this preview: cheesy flirting, mentions of Dawn x Dick (because this is set during the 'flashback era' with the OG Titans); not a lot of warnings here? stalking/unknown surveillance, the reader being a target for Cadmus and not knowing it, the reader uses she/her pronouns; the reader has Kryptonian powers (super strength, flight, lazer eyes, etc.) but I don't think that it has to denote the reader's body type. I think that's it for this preview section.

...

It was an odd sight, but strangely enough - the Tower was calm.

Somehow, the Titans had stumbled upon the conditions to have themselves a calm, quiet Sunday. Garth and Hank were sitting on the couch trying to best each other in Call of Duty, their eyes glassed over as they stared at the screen and obnoxious shooting noises came from the TV (which had been forcefully turned down by Donna so that everyone else could enjoy their peace). Dick was sitting in one of the large armchairs with Dawn in his lap - it seemed that he was enjoying a rare moment of not having to do much of anything, soaking up the calmness. 

And you were in the kitchen with Donna, preparing a selection of foods for a homemade taco night (Donna’s idea), snacking on more bits than you were helping with as she pattered around, glancing between recipes she had pulled up on her iPad and stirring pots, chopping things, checking timers. Even when the team had the day off - she couldn’t rest. She was a busy body, she couldn’t help herself. 

“Six letter word for a rare flower?” Dawn was doing the Sunday crossword puzzle, and as usual, she had tried to get the answers on her own for a while, bending her own mind with the clues - but she was growing tired of guessing, so now she was fishing for answers. 

“Lamium?” Dick posed, running a hand gently up her back, quietly pleased to have such a beauty sitting in his lap. 

Dawn scrunched her nose as she looked at the puzzle closer. 

“No.” She said. “It starts with a D.”  

“A rare flower? How about - Donna?” You said, turning to Donna with a wicked smirk on your face as you popped a piece of raw bell pepper between your lips. 

Donna rolled her eyes at this very obvious bid to flirt, and you caught her suppressing a grin as she snatched a cutting board out from under you, filled with the peppers you had just been cutting - before she moved away with it, she leaned in a gave you a haste, sweet peck on the lips. She wanted to scold you when she tasted a variety of food on your lips and realized that you had been sneaking so much of it that was supposed to go into the final dinner, but she resisted. Instead, she turned and scooped the peppers into a pan on the stove behind her. 

“Barf.” Hank barged into the conversation suddenly, letting out a very fake gag.

...

Somewhere many miles outside of San Francisco, in a secluded bunker that was filled with Cadmus employees that couldn’t be traced back to LexCorp legally, a group of people eagerly watched a set of security monitors. 

Those monitors were filled with footage of you. Newsreels of you saving children from burning buildings, lifting cars off a collapsing bridge in order to save the people inside of them, cellphone footage of you holding up a concrete pillar to keep it from crushing a homeless encampment. 

In the center of all the screens, there were several invasive views of the Titans’ home. Someone had hacked into the Tower’s feed and was displaying it on those screens. While the Titans laughed, joked, and ate dinner, they had no clue that they were being watched by prying eyes. 

“Are you sure she’s the one?” One of the men asked, flicking through some pages on a clipboard in front of him. Files regarding your history. 

“She’s perfect.” A stern woman announced. “I want to start the test as soon as possible.” 

“Yes ma’am.” Someone else agreed. “We can have it launched within the hour.” 

[qcontinuumumum]

Fulgrim AU

It was a glorious dawn on Chemos, the last day of servitude as its industry advanced, its people free from labour and able to pursuit their own desires. The Coronation celebrated the one who changed the planet's fate, Fulgrim, he had stopped the never-ending toil the populace endured for the resources of off-world traders that they needed to survive.

Fulgrim awoke in his palace, it was a renovated factory with its machines removed. The first art of Chemos covered the palace, far from the drab greys the planet had only ever known, the walls were coloured in violets, scarlets and rouges. Paintings hanged on the walls, drawn on the back of supply mainfestos.

Gifts were left by his door, some priceless such as an ornate sword left by an old crone, others more sentimental like a child's doll that had one of its eyes torn off and had stitches over its body.

"These are the gratitudes of my people" Fulgrim mused.

As he walked the halls a man was waiting for him, he was dressed in fine clothing the likes of which the planet had never seen, decorated in shiny gems, all this marked him as one of the off-world traders that the planet once depended on.

"Congratulations" the man spoke "you've made a fine change here, this opulence suits you. If you wanted more you could strike a deal with me. Your people must be grateful to you for all the help you've given them, but they aren't capable of having so much freedom all to themselves, i mean look at this rubbish".

He gestures towards the paintings and the gifts. "This is the work of people who wouldn't know the meaning of beauty, they are labourers they need labour. I could show you exotic pieces from other worlds, and all you would have to do is let me take a few of these people to one of the distant moons to do what they do best, work".

He picks up the doll.

"I mean this is just plain shit", as he tosses it toward a wall.

Quicker than the man eyes could see, Fulgrim had rushed between the doll and the wall, catching it.

"This is mine" exclaimed Fulgrim "these people are mine, their achievements are mine, their future is mine and i will not let them suffer from parasites such as yourself who would let them work themselves to death for your gain and stifle their own desires".

"Your pride will be your downfall", the man stormed off.

Later that night

Fulgrim stood on the balacony addressing a crowd of hundreds of thousands.

"This is the future you have all been tirelessly working for and you will share in its wealth," before the speech could continue the sky was alight with flame as fire fell upon the palace grounds.

The people screamed and trampled over each other to get away, the palace was in blazes and many couldn't escape. Fulgrim looked up at the source and saw in the planet's thermosphere a trading vessel.

The palace collapsed with Fulgrim trapped, the fire consuming all within. The paintings destroyed, the doll burned and the ornate sword... glowed. Its light grew as the last death yell of the people trapped within.

Fugrim reached for the sword and feeling its energy unleashed it.

The ship above was ripped from realty as a warp hole appeared and its crew ripped apart by the souls of the dead.

In the dawn Fulgrim rose from his ashes.

[aaronsrpgs]

I've been so excited about this game for so long! They were kind enough to let me write a foreword for it, the entirety of which is below the break.

Thank god for mutants.

My first mutant encounter was in a flea market at the Warrens Cranberry Festival circa 1991. I hesitantly parted with my allowance to buy a comic whose cover’s top third (where the title and issue number were) had been torn off to secure monetary returns from the magazine distributor. Inside, five mutants struggled with being hated and, thereby, hating themselves. The art had a violent energy to it, ink scraped and splattered across the page by a young Bill Sienkiewicz and spare, harsh colors by Glynis Wein. Despite being in the X-Men family of comics, New Mutants shocked me in a way that changed my perception of art forever. It felt struggling and sinewy, like it was pulling itself toward its own creation.

The X-Men are famous the world over and must remain vaguely and forever themselves for the sake of marketing. The New Mutants, on the other hand, are virtual unknowns. They’re allowed to change. They get weird.

The joy of getting weird.

It’s great to fantasize about being beautiful while also shooting deadly beams from your eyes. But it’s a power fantasy, and for most of us, it remains out of our reach.

But to be a freak is a different kind of fantasy. Most of us are at least on our way there; many of us are already registered citizens of Freaktown. And the fantasies of freakdom are a bit different. They might include…

Watching the system collapse in the face of your freakiness.

Finding a bunch of other freaks.

Being accepted in your full freakitude.

But to me, to be a freak is to be allowed to change. To mutate. A freak can grow a new arm and remain at an equivalent level of freakiness. A freak can cancel their plans because of anxiety and not be rated any lower or higher than they already were. Being a freak is both a binary “yes” and an infinite spectrum. And this invitation to change is what the world (or at least the very limited pieces of it I see) needs right now.

Don’t fart on buses.

In the places I frequent, the refusal to change is extreme. I would not be surprised to read a news story where, upon farting aboard a crowded bus, a man is scolded for his behavior and asked not to repeat it, whereupon he stands up and hold forth on freedom: the freedom to fart where he pleases, no matter who is present and how thick the air is. And to request that he not engage in his god-given freedom to hot-box commuters, why, that is many degrees more sinful than the flatulent act, and you should be ashamed to even have mentioned it! This man is the worst X-Man ever, refusing to change, because that would mean hard work and ego death.

But we should be thankful for change! We should work on change. Change is why we’re not babies anymore. Change is why we don’t make the same stupid mistakes. Change is the only hope we have for a world where we’re not stuck huffing the farts of insistent farters.

Finally, Plasmodics.

Let’s get to the point. Plasmodics is a celebration of freaks. All the mutants are here, and we’re all smiling. But it’s not a static utopian fantasy; it’s an irradiated fata morgana of our own anti-freak world, where bad decisions outside of our control have ended our hopes for utopia over and over, and they will continue to do so.

So we scrabble around, searching for the artifacts our mutantcestors left behind, reveling in what might have been, and doing our small part to hold off the next ending so we can build some space and party down.

Come on in! The plasm’s fine.